“Style is a way to say who you are without having to speak,” Hollywood celebrity stylist Rachel Zoe once said.

If that is indeed the case, the Maltese sartorial aesthetic is more of a cacophony of ungoverned noise than a submissive whimper in the dark and of course, where better to partake in this unholy din than by observing the one event a year where everyone’s inner beauty queen comes out to play?

Yes, you heard it here first: the village festa.

It’s always struck me as somewhat odd that most Maltese shudder at the mere mention of our Arab roots. To me they have always been as obvious as my neighbour’s jet-black regrowth jarring against freshly-bleached brassy blonde hair (a Maltese obsession deserving of serious anthropological study.)

But in any case, if anyone needed any further proof that we are more souk than Savile Row, one only has to venture to the hallowed village square to raise his eyebrows higher than the hems of those who have decided that the world is going to be their gynaecologist for three nights only.

For many years I thought that this particular look, so ubiquitous to our fair islands, was something that was uniquely indigenous, until I discovered Lebanese television. As I consumed recording after recording of daytime Lebanese television shows and watched singers perform with their glistening diamante-encrusted nails and generously displayed bosoms, I was finally able to at least tentatively source the roots of our obsession with what I lovingly like to call the ‘1980’s beauty pageant look’.

If anyone needed any further proof that we are more souk than Savile Row, one only has to venture to the hallowed village square to raise his eyebrows higher than the hems of those who have decided that the world is going to be their gynaecologist for three nights only

Now as all those who know me would confirm, I have absolutely no problem with anyone’s breasts or buttocks hanging out of anything, so long as the dress being worn is for the body you have rather than the one you want. However, much to the misfortune of my eyes, it would seem that not many women get that particular memo.

Whereas many designers like to change the fabrics they use in their collections in order to keep up with seasonality and their general vision for each collection, for the average Maltese woman, the only answer to that particular conundrum is lycra (and lots of it) regardless of height, shape and whether or not the particular colour of choice makes one look as washed out as a piece of flotsam.

Couple your form-“enhancing” dress with enough bling to make a Christmas tree blush and enough makeup to coat the fattest figolla in the shop, and you’re almost good to go.

Why almost? Well, because you haven’t yet brought out the matching shoes and handbag which are sure to make you the envy of every village Venus.

Of course, each story has two sides, as I discovered quite recently when I ventured out of my house in search of fattening nourishment only to be greeted by a gaggle of young girls in endemic apparel who took one look at my apparently underdressed form and cackled in derision while loudly saying: “I can’t believe she wore that.”

Ditto sweethearts, I thought. Ditto.