Poor Victoria Beckham. To have fashion, her erstwhile best friend, the industry that kept her picture in the paper, the thing, as she told chat show host Jay Leno, that she is “good at”, betray her – well, we know it’s a fickle world, but who would have guessed it?

Yet there she is in Los Angeles, in her hot pink Roland Mouret sexy secretary look, her skin-tight Hervé Leger and Alaia mini-dresses, her sky-scraping Balenciaga stilettos, looking as though she was auditioning for Heather Locklear’s part in Melrose Place – a decade and a half late. There she is with hubby David in W magazine, in S&M lingerie and softcore poses, provoking ... giggles at the news stand. There she is, in the centre of Dodgers stadium, in Dries van Noten wedge sneakers with white short-shorts getting booed by fans in the stands. There she is declaring her hatred of flip-flops in the state that has made Jennifer Aniston an icon in flip-flops. There she is, an object of derision, because of her clothes.