TS Eliot was absolutely right when he said that ‘April is the cruellest month’, but it’s not ‘lilacs breeding out of the dead land’ that disturb me.

Actually, it’s the people who have decided to shed layers of clothing at the first hint of sunshine, along with any sense of taste or shame.

For the last week or so, we have enjoyed some unseasonably lovely weather. It’s rare indeed for the temperature to nudge into the 70s during the first days of spring, but it’s rarer still to find a British body ready to unveil itself to the elements at this time of year.

Believe me, unless you are a very minor celebrity, a footballer’s wife, a denizen of Essex or (quite likely) all three of the aforementioned, the likelihood of you being able to strip off and bare all to those unaccustomed rays without looking like a distant sibling of Moby Dick is more remote than the furthest pincer of The Crab Nebulae.

Take last Thursday for example.

It was a glorious April morning and for the first time in months commuting Londoners had shrugged off their uniform of black and grey.

All around me colour bloomed brightly as working women from 18 to 80 dug deep into their wardrobes to unleash a bit a sunshine.

But instead of revelling in the fact that it was a lovely day and I’d actually got a seat on the Tube for once, I was transfixed by the sight of the toes of the woman sitting opposite me.

Admittedly, from the ankles up she was passable, but no one was looking at her beautifully coordinated floral dress and pastel jacket.

No, we were all staring (or trying not to stare) at her flapping, flip-flop-shod feet which featured overgrown toe nails so gnarled and yellow that it looked as if she’d grafted a packet of quavers onto her nether digits.

Those gruesome pinkies were utterly riveting and revolting in equal measure. They looked like the nicotine-stained fingers of a seasoned smoker - a thought so surreal and unsettling that I had to drag my eyes away and force myself to concentrate very hard on a feature in Metro about artisan cheese shops.

(That didn’t help much, by the way.)

Now, I’m not claiming the moral high ground here - at the moment my hoary winter-bound feet are pretty repulsive and I’m quite happy to admit it. What I wouldn’t do, however, is put them on public display until I’ve indulged in a pretty intensive grooming and clipping session - perhaps accompanied by the application of a bit of fake tan.

I’m constantly amazed by the British reaction to sunshine. Obviously by putting us on these weather-battered islands nature meant us to be a nation of hardy, thick-skinned, pale, freckled shadow dwellers.

If you are a gardener reading this, you’ll already know that the plants that thrive in shady conditions are generally fleshy, low-creeping, unshowy specimens.

They usually have broad, dark green mottled leaves and if they produce flowers at all they are discreetly pale and small.

In hotter climes, however, gardens are generally a riot of colour and glamour. Big, exotic tropical blooms droop in a seductive, exhausted and languidly obvious way from stems and vines that run rampant up the sunniest walls.

There’s something attractively over-the-top about a balcony in Spain or Italy festooned with clashing varieties of brilliant purple and hot pink geraniums, whereas a similar garden in England looks like it’s trying a bit too hard. It’s just the same with fashion.

At the first hint of a sunbeam, British women’s magazines start urging their readers to dress in colours that only someone like Naomi Campbell or perhaps Penelope Cruz would look good in, totally overlooking the fact that in early spring - and for most of the year - the vast majority of us have the colouring and complexion of cave-dwelling axolotl.

Which brings me back to that train journey last week. It wasn’t only the toes of the woman opposite that seemed all wrong. Once I started looking around me the fatal signs that spring had sprung at least two weeks too early were everywhere.

Clearly lots of women on the Central line had taken the commandments of the fashion editors to heart because the carriage was awash with vibrant shades of lime green, fuchsia and orange which clashed very badly with the acres of pallid flesh on display.

These are not even good colours for the average British woman at the height of summer when she has a tan, a head full of highlights and perfect manicure and pedicure - so the effect last Tuesday was less than flattering.

Now, I know what the problem is.

We are so starved of sunshine and semi-temperate weather on these sea-bound rocks that at the first opportunity we throw off our black coats and cardigans along with our inhibitions.

Like lemmings we follow the dictats of the glossy mags - totally disregarding the fact that the hot pink strappy playsuit looks good on the page because the model is a caramel-skinned Brazilian beauty filmed on a sun-dappled beach in the Caribbean.

Translate that look to your bedroom in Bushey at 8am on a Tuesday morning in April and I’ll guarantee it doesn’t make you look like Gisele Bundchen.

I’ve been ploughing my own fashion furrow this season - mostly consisting of grey, more grey and black opaque tights.

I thought I was doing quite well, to be honest, until last Thursday when my husband asked me when I was going to stop “working that ‘Song of Bernadette’ look”.

Just space here for a quick correction. My father is very keen for me to point out that the excellent Indian restaurant he frequents on the Cassiobury estate is actually called The Prince of Bengal - not, as I said last week, the Sultan, which used to be the name of my local curry house. (It crept in through frequent, personal takeway use).

Apparently his complimentary after-curry mints depend on this.