Fact: Some of the most fun you can have while doing time on this planet Earth is shopping.

(Who knew you could have orgasms while standing up?)

Listen, I’m not talking about vulgar consumerism here, no frenzied, hedonistic orgy of the blithe ignoring of one’s fiscal responsibilities. I’m talking about pure, unadulterated shopping for the pleasure, nay, the exquisite and unparalleled joy, of buying something new.

(Memories of the Observer’s fabulously groundbreaking Fashion’s Night Out, last October, still evoke warm, fuzzy feelings within.)

There are so few genuine pleasures left.

I’m the only person I know who makes an event out of weekly grocery shopping and sees it as a glorious expedition rather than a dull, time-consuming obligation. I go every week, as my favourite designer on Project Runway this season, Anthony, says: “packed, stacked and ready to attack”. First for breakfast there then the DVD rental place, the flower shop and finally, the food section. It’s like spending two hours in a gym, that’s what it is. That release of endorphins makes one feel like one is truly alive, doesn’t it?

My friends know this about me: My three favourite things are reading, writing and, help me, shopping. I don’t care what for — it could be as simple as a leather case for my iPod Touch on Amazon.com — shopping affords the most thrilling rush. I’m the ultimate consumer’s consumer. But I’m not an idiot: I won’t buy, say, dirt. But if I were a Saturday morning children’s cartoon character, I think I’d be called Sharo: Shopping’s Warrior Princess, or some affectation like that, and I’d be outfitted in a tiara, a really, really cool outfit, a lasso to snatch the goods from the shelf, and a shopping bag that expands as it fills up with goodies.

Every time I watch Pretty Woman I get the vapours at the part when Julia Roberts is unleashed on Rodeo Drive with Richard Gere’s credit card. Dear God, that’s always such a fantasy for me. Um, no, I don’t want to be a prostitute who spends a week bestowing my considerable, um, charms upon a scandalously rich businessman. I simply wish I could experience the pleasures of turning myself loose on some of the best stores in the world, armed with a limitless credit card.

Dare to dream, girl. Dare to dream.

I admitted this fantasy to someone, once. “All the clothes, shoes and handbags I ever wanted would be mine,” I exulted. I might have closed my eyes wistfully trying to visualise it; a little drool may even have escaped the side of my mouth. Or maybe I was imagining a room closet like Oprah or Gayle’s humongous enough to house all that swag. But when I came down off that cloud, he was staring uncomprehendingly at me. I think he assumed that my fantasy should be to feed all the hungry people in the world. Or at least in Jamaica.

Like most people, I have the ability to be extremely shallow, I guess. Sue me.

Here’s something I’ve noticed. People often feel uncomfortable admitting to a love of shopping. They also feel uncomfortable listening to somebody admitting to loving shopping. As if it’s the lowliest of preoccupations a person — a woman — could have. Last summer, I invited a friend to go clothes shopping with me. Her response was: “But you don’t need any more clothes. You have enough.”

Really?

What in holy God’s name did the amount of clothes hanging in my closet have to do with anything? And who made the rule that said you can’t go shopping until your clothes are completely outmoded, tattered and falling away from you?

It reminds me of an incident that occurred at a store, during Fashion’s Night Out. A boyfriend/husband was overheard remarking to his girlfriend/wife: “Another pair of black shoes? But you have black shoes already!”

There was a sharp intake of breath as the store went momentarily quiet and women stopped — hands fidgeting with shoes frozen in mid-air — and turned around to glare at him, and then look at each other in sisterly solidarity.

“Next time, leave him in the car,” someone muttered, breaking the tension.

I don’t know; I got the distinct feeling with my friend that I was meant to be embarrassed for even desiring a fresh wardrobe when the one I currently had wasn’t even beginning to go to seed yet.

Well, I very much beg your pardon but I’m the girl who buys InStyle and Marie Claire religiously every month. Clothes, bag and shoe shopping are the best kinds of shopping. Ever. I absolutely worship Project Runway and the Rachel Zoe Project. And I won’t apologise because I fervently wish that Tim Gunn and I could forge a special marriage arrangement.

And, while we’re on the subject of clothes, there’s this. Why is it that a woman who likes clothes is often seen as somehow not serious? Especially a professional woman?

Case in point: Katie Couric’s recent fashion spread in Harper’s Bazaar, which has set tongues wagging. Couric, the first female American solo evening news anchor, and one of the most serious journalists around, apparently dared to pose in a “short — very short — skirt, “a curve-hugging Calvin Klein dress” and “the kind of platform Gucci heels that have been known to send professional models tumbling to their knees”, as Robin Givhan, in a complimentary piece in the Washington Post, describes her get-up.

But Couric’s detractors bared their fangs in their public speculation. All of a grand sudden, Couric’s journalistic abilities were being scrutinised, if not called directly into question. As if her IQ and amped-up fashion sense are diametrically opposed. In other words, a smart woman’s gravitas and a kick-ass wardrobe are mutually exclusive of each other. Never mind that this was the woman who completely eviscerated Sarah Palin during the US Presidential election campaign in 2008 and irrevocably helped to pave the way for Barack Obama’s ascendancy.

Why do women who love to dress up make such easy targets? It is unfair and downright simplistic to make a judgement about a woman’s character or her intelligence by her penchant for shopping, for dressing up. And people who do should ask themselves why they don’t draw similar ugly inferences about the character and ability of men who like to look sharp.