FASHION:It's called Sixing, and it's big in the US. Could you pick six items from your wardrobe and wear only them for a month? ROSEMARY MACCABE'sanswer, on this page, is a resounding no, while LAURENCE MACKINstruggles with his laundry

WHEN MY EDITOR approaches me with a feature idea, I am fully prepared to say yes. I tried fake cigarettes, for crying out loud. I went to Monaghan for a festival. At one particularly low (and hilarious) point, I was on stage in the Grand Canal Theatre.

“I want you to go on this wardrobe diet,” she says, expectant face peering into mine. I am stunned. Did she just drop the D-bomb and have the audacity to smile? “You take your wardrobe, and . . .” I take a deep breath. “You pare it down to six pieces. Six items you wear for a month.” Again, very enthusiastic.

“No,” I say. “Absolutely not, sorry. I spend time trying to wear my clothes. I put time and effort into wearing more things from my wardrobe, not less. I own more than 100 dresses.” I take a breath, pause and realise I have become what my parents always feared I would: a brat. “Um . . . tell me more,” I say.

The idea behind “sixing” is to liberate yourself from the constraints of your wardrobe, by confining yourself to six items only. It seems an oxymoron, this liberation-by-way-of-confinement malarkey, but those who have tried it say they emerged feeling free, realising that it doesn’t matter how few clothes you wear.

WEEK ONE

The selection process is, at first glance, the most difficult aspect. I choose a pair of jeans which, cunningly, I have two of – I have learned that you are permitted to double up on items that are exactly the same. I choose a black T-shirt. A black T-shirt and jeans is, surely, foolproof, and vaguely professional. Plus, I can jazz it up with one of my 34, yes, 34 scarves.

Then things get tough. I am very fond of dresses, the one-item outfit, but which to choose? I opt for a grey floral and another tea dress in navy, which is entirely see-through but can be mixed up with various different slips. A slip, you see, is an undergarment, and underwear doesn’t count.

That’s four. I have two left. It’s a little like being on Countdown – except for, you know, the fact that you’re not on Countdown and there is neither spelling nor maths involved.

My denim shirt seems an inspired, albeit obvious, choice. Denim on denim is still cool, right? I can layer it with dresses and wear it with jeans, and if I’m stretching the boundaries of definition, I can wear it, half-buttoned, with a floral bodysuit (underwear, surely?).

Then, thinking of my jeans, I throw in the final item: a cream, wrap-around floral blouse by Diane von Furstenberg that is both dressy and day-appropriate, and will surely fill the void where all of my other floral tops once sat.

I’m told that I am to undertake this task for four weeks. The first week goes well, although the incessant questioning – “Is that on your wardrobe diet?” – from friends, family and colleagues quickly wears thin. I wear my black T-shirt with lots of necklaces and jeans. The next day, I wear it with a scarf. The next day, I wash it and swap in my floral top, which I then realise is dry-clean only and will make a very expensive addition. I drop it into the dry-cleaners on day four and promptly forget about it. After that, the grey dress, but that’s a particularly warm day, so I opt to wash it that evening and the next day, wear jeans and the denim shirt.

After about two machine-loads the problems become apparent. I live in Ireland, where it rains four days out of seven and dry clothes are the exception rather than the rule. The navy dress is broken out much sooner than it ought to.

WEEK TWO

Disaster. My grey dress, washed once, is a shadow of its former self and now about two inches shorter than it was initially. I try opaque tights: no dice. This is no longer work-appropriate. Heck, it’s not life-appropriate. I figure I can swap it out for something else – another floral dress, sure they’re practically the same.

I awake on day 10 with a ferocious desire to call in sick and stay in bed. I toss and turn. I sulk. I turn on the radio and sulk a little more. I wonder if perhaps I’m depressed. I do feel a bit like crying. Then it hits me: I don’t want to get up because I can’t face the by-now-all-too-familiar black T-shirt and jeans combo. I struggle through and go for the navy dress again, surveying my unhappy face in the mirror.

Then, disaster number two: there are two gaping holes in the dress, along the seam. The navy dress goes on the floor, along with any remnants of positivity. The black T-shirt comes out again (I will admit to having three black T-shirts, not exactly alike, but sure a black T-shirt is a black T-shirt) and I trudge to work, utterly despondent.

It’s in the lift on day 14 that I lose the will to go on. A colleague says hello to me. I mutter something incomprehensible and he says, “Oh no. What’s wrong? You’re usually so happy.”

He’s right, I usually am happy. I am happy to spend an hour and a half each morning wondering what to wear. I am happy to try on 10 different outfits before deciding on the one that suits (as I write this, in a particularly ironic turn, I am wearing a black T-shirt and jeans). I’m happy not to be confined, even if said confinement is (allegedly) in the name of liberation.

Limits, like rules, are made to be broken – and, after just two weeks of sixing, I can say that it only made me feel less free, less spontaneous, less adventurous. And it put a serious strain on my washing machine.