It's exciting to hear that so many women writers work in the nude

Our survey of women writers revealed that only 48% wore "normal" clothes to write in. Two per cent wrote in the nude, 14% wore night clothes and 1% have a "special writing outfit". What would you recommend for the aspiring authoress to wear?

Debbie Taylor, Mslexia magazine, by email

I'm sorry, what? Two per cent of women writers write in the nude? Debbie, you just made reading a whole lot more exciting. Who are these barenaked ladies? Are they alive, or can I guess George Eliot? She always struck me as a "hang it all out" kinda gal. Or maybe Emily Brontë, wrenching off her clothes with anguished emotion as she wrote. No, wait: Barbara Cartland. It totally explains the pulsating passion that radiated from those novels.

Debbie, you work in the fiction world – set the scene for me a little bit here. I need more context, more narrative. What is a "special writing outfit"? And for that matter, what are "normal" clothes? And most of all, who are these naked writers?

But using the skeleton plot I am given – the first draft, if you will – I would suggest this for, to borrow your deliciously romantic phrase, "the aspiring authoress": first, a giant padlock. This is to be draped decorously around the fridge. It's amazing how hungry one gets when one is working from home, and how fascinating heretofore uninteresting foodstuffs become. Eating a can of pickled onions or starting the next chapter? No contest!

Next, a pair of shoes with cement blocks for soles. If you can't find them on the high street, ask a friend with connections to the mafia. Put them on once you have finally watched all the morning TV you can take before suffering an aneurysm and are sitting at your desk. These will make it harder for you to get up and wander around: it is an unexplained but irrefutable phenomenon that for some reason it is only when one has to do any kind of writing at home that one realises how many fascinating other things there are in one's flat that require reading immediately, such as three-month-old magazines and the backs of aspirin bottles.

Next, maim your left hand. Just smash it with your cement shoes and be sure to injure it in a way that won't impede your typing, but will stop you turning on your wireless or spending another day on the internet reading articles about things you don't care about.

And finally, don't wash your hair for several days and wear the ugliest outfit possible. Perhaps that old maternity dress of your sister's that somehow ended up in your closet? The one with the spaghetti sauce dripping down the front in a pattern that makes it look like you're drooling? Perfect. Put that on. Thus, even if you develop the thigh muscles to be able to walk in your cement shoes (never underestimate the determination of those desperate to procrastinate), this look will definitely keep you from going outside and will secure you in your chair, writing the next great novel. Procrastination is a strong compulsion, yes. But vanity beats all.

Is it ever acceptable for a grown woman to wear knee-high socks? I'm tempted to try them for a festival.

Rhona Brown, by email

Actually, festivals are the only time when a grown woman can wear knee socks. Any other context is pure Baby Spice, who quite clearly contravened the Trades Descriptions Act in her time. Note to Simon Fuller: a teddy bear is not a time machine, so no matter how many teddy bears you make an 18-year-old clutch in publicity photoshoots, she does not become a cute eight-year-old – she looks like an 18-year-old gone wrong.

Some fashion designers try to legitimise the "knee socks on adults" look, but more in a Nora Batty way, rather than Baby Spice. On the one hand, one applauds these designers for – unusually for the profession – opting for a geriatric look over a disturbingly childlike one. On the other, few people want to look like Nora Batty and thus, thankfully, it's a look that rarely moves beyond the Prada catwalk.

I shared your reserve, Rhona, about knee socks, even in the generally permissive context of festivals, where one can wear a dustbin bag as a poncho. Well, could, until last summer. There I was at Glastonbury having a lovely-ish time except for two problems:

1 I couldn't move without coming across Florence and the Machine bellowing out You've Got the Love!

2 I had welly rash.

The first I could not remedy. The latter I could. So I purchased myself a pair of knee-high socks and, Rhona, I never looked back. Particularly because I was afraid I'd accidentally see that Florence chick again.