I’ll put on a spangly sweatshirt and blue eye shadow, and think I look like Chloe Sevigny – until someone points out I look more like Liza Minnelli.

Eighties revival? Not in my wardrobe.

I didn’t get the look right the first time around, so I don’t fancy my chances of being an ’80s queen now.

Problem is, all that stuff from two decades ago – bat-winged sweaters, fingerless gloves, neon trimmings – just aren’t flattering.

They may look vaguely cool for the nanosecond they’re in fashion again, but only if you have natural style.

But when I enter this quagmire of bad taste, I do it blind.

I’ll put on a pair of tapered jeans, a spangly sweatshirt and blue eye shadow, and think I look like Chloe Sevigny – until someone points out I look more like Liza Minnelli.

My biggest phobia in life is those Lower East Side fashion stylist/musician-type chicks who can throw on an old, baggy, floral dress paired with a big plastic belt and pixie boots and look all retro-sexy on a date.

If I wore the same stuff, a guy would think I had forgotten to pick up my laundry.

Back in the real ’80s, it was no different for me.

You’d think the fact that I attended a high-powered, all-girls’ high school with no uniform (a rare treat in the U.K.) would have earned me a keen sense of style.

Oh no.

I spent most of my early teens sporting a pair of fuchsia dungarees, a sunshine yellow baggy top with balloons on the front of it which had bits of string that dangled from my non-existent boobs, and maroon plastic sneakers which my mum bought in a French supermarket.

Not items, I notice, that have made it into today’s fashion revival.

In 1986, at age 15, when I started dreaming about boys – I didn’t actually know any, of course – I invested in a pale-pink nylon pencil skirt, and a pink-and-white striped off-one-shoulder bat-winged jumper.

I paired these delightful items with white patent high heels and a pearly two-tone blue-and-pink chiffon beret crammed over my peroxided crimped hair.

I’ll never forget the mortifying moment at school when a mate came up to me and said, “Bridget, you look like a pastel poo.”

I eventually ditched this tragic ensemble in favor of a ripped denim jacket (worn at all times off one shoulder) Doc Martens and a denim mini-miniskirt.

It was my “tart with a heart” look and, minus the rips and DMs, it’s a look I’ve pretty much stuck with until today.

But the good thing about the ’80s was that I could get away with being a fashion disaster.

The only people I was trying to impress back then were a bunch of pimply schoolboys who knew no more about style than me.

Here in 2003 New York, life’s a bit different.

A couple of months ago, I was told gently by a friend that one of the city’s top p.r. princesses had said, and I quote: “That Bridget Harrison has terrible taste in clothes.”

“Moi???” I replied, horrified. “Whatever can she mean?”

The same night, I looked down at my outfit and realized I had turned up to a Soho House July 4th fireworks party wearing a extra-small flowery miniskirt purchased from Express, an old faded pink T-shirt that had “Playboy Playmate of the Year” emblazoned across my chest and a pair of Gap platform flip-flops.

Everyone else was wearing white linen.

But then, in a way, I should thank my stylish high school for the way I live today.

Even in my teens, I never had an interest in fashion, and generally liked to put on whatever I picked up first off my bedroom floor.

So I got used to being surrounded by a bunch of super-chic girls while I happily sported my own lack of personal style.

Today, co-workers still say I look like I got dressed by rolling around in my laundry basket.

Find me at a fashion party, and I’ll be wearing the badly put-together ensemble of my favorite Lulu Guinness black patent shoes and an Urban Outfitters hippie skirt.

Once I found myself in an elevator with Candace Bushnell and all her pals, going to a party.

They were decked out in chic black dresses that looked straight off the shelf of Versace.

I was wearing pigtails, Gap raver pants and the same old Playboy T-shirt.

I’m used to my own fashion disasters – but I’m not foolish enough to get tangled up in an entire decade’s worth, too.