Five pieces that do most of the work, and how to buy them

Go and look at what you've worn in the last month. Not what's hanging up — what's been washed, worn again, and thrown over a chair. For most women it comes down to about eight garments, and five of them are doing the heavy lifting.

Those five are worth real money and real attention. Everything else in the wardrobe is weather, occasion or mood.

The straight-leg trouser in a mid-weight wool

Not a legging. Not a wide-leg that needs a heel to function. A trouser cut straight from the hip to the hem, in a fabric with enough weight to hang rather than cling.

Look for wool or a wool-rich blend in the region of 250 to 300 grams per square metre. That's the weight that holds a crease, skims instead of sticking, and doesn't go shiny at the back after four wears. Stretch content should be low — above about three per cent elastane and you'll get bagging at the knee and seat by mid-afternoon, and it never presses out.

Check three things in the fitting room. Where the waistband actually sits when you sit down. Whether the pockets lie flat or splay open. Whether there's seam allowance inside the side seams and a hem deep enough to let down.

Then hem them to one pair of shoes. Not "a bit of everything" — one pair. Trousers hemmed to a compromise length look wrong with all of it. If you live in flats, the hem wants to just touch the top of the shoe. If you wear a heel most days, you need another inch or so, and you'll accept the puddle when you kick the heels off.

The cotton poplin shirt

A proper shirt, in proper cotton. Poplin, not the slippery viscose thing that reads as "blouse" and crumples like tissue.

The shoulder seam should end where your shoulder ends. That single line does more for how a shirt looks than the price on the tag, and it's the one thing a tailor can't fix cheaply. Everything else can be adjusted.

Sleeves should be long enough that you can push them to the elbow and they stay there. Cuffs should undo properly — a shirt you can't roll is a shirt you'll stop wearing by March.

The common failure is button gape across the bust. Two fixes, both routine. Size up and have the body and sleeves taken in, which costs less than you'd guess and takes a week. Or ask a tailor to add a small hidden snap between the buttons at the widest point. Neither is a compromise. Buying the smaller size and standing carefully all day is the compromise.

Wash it cool, hang it damp, iron the collar and cuffs and half the front. Nobody has ever inspected the back of a shirt under a jumper.

The fine-gauge merino crewneck

Not a chunky knit. Chunky knits are a look, and they get worn on eleven days a year. A fine-gauge merino crewneck goes under a coat, over a shirt, into a trouser waistband, and out to dinner.

Merino in the 17.5 to 19.5 micron range is soft enough to sit against skin without itching. Below that it gets delicate and expensive; above it starts to scratch. Check the label for the micron count or at least for "extra fine merino" — vague "wool blend" with a big acrylic share will pill in three wears and never recover.

Pull the cuff ribbing and let go. It should snap back. If it stays stretched, the whole garment will go shapeless at the hem and neck within a season.

Buy it long enough in the body to tuck. A knit that's too short to tuck forces the waistband issue every time you put it on.

Wash on the wool cycle or by hand, cool, and dry flat. Never hang a wet knit. Gravity will add two inches to one shoulder and you'll blame the brand.

The coat that fits over the jumper

Most coats are bought in a heated shop over a T-shirt, and then fail in January when there's a knit and a scarf underneath. Take the jumper with you. Put it on. Then try the coat.

Single-breasted wool, hitting somewhere between mid-thigh and just below the knee, is the version that works over trousers, dresses and jeans without argument. Anything shorter needs the outfit underneath to cooperate.

Check the sleeve reaches the wrist bone with the knit on. Check you can cross your arms without the back seam straining — a coat you can't drive in or carry shopping in isn't a coat. Feel the pocket bags; cheap ones are shallow and tear out by the second winter.

Wool content matters more than the name inside. A dense wool-rich melton or twill will block wind. A thin coat with a polyester lining and a nice label will not, and you'll wear a padded jacket instead and resent the money.

One good coat, worn every day from November to March, is the single most-seen garment you own. Spend accordingly, then get it dry-cleaned once at the end of the season and store it on a broad hanger.

The simple column dress in a stable knit

The one-decision garment. Ponte, heavy jersey, or a fine knit with body — something that holds a shape rather than shrink-wrapping to it.

It wants sleeves, a neckline that stays where you put it, and a hem that doesn't ride up when you walk. Test that in the fitting room: take ten actual steps, sit down, stand up. If you had to adjust anything, it's not the dress.

The point of it isn't glamour. It's that on a bad morning you can put on one thing, add boots and the coat, and be dressed to a standard you'd be happy to run into anyone at. In summer it takes flat sandals. Under the coat it takes tights. Over three years it earns more wears than the four "fun" dresses bought for specific events.

What multiplies all five

A tailor. Find one locally, take in one thing, see what comes back. Shortening sleeves, taking in a waist, moving a button, rehemming trousers — these are quick jobs, and they turn a garment that's nearly right into one you reach for first.

And decide on a shoe. Two pairs, honestly: one flat you can walk in, one with a bit of height. Every trouser hem, every dress length and every coat proportion in your wardrobe is measured against those. Change shoe category on a whim and half of it stops working.

Buy these five slowly. One at a time, out of season if you can bear the wait, in colours that sit next to each other without a conversation. Navy, grey, ivory, black, camel — pick three, not five.

The dressing gets easier the fewer good options you have. That's the part nobody selling clothes wants you to work out.