The show must go on, Tilda, not the pyjamas

ON THE rare occasions that I go out to dinner with my husband, I like to get dressed up. Maybe not necessarily a ballgown, or anything with a ten-foot-long train and a crowd of attendants to carry it, but something as unlike my normal Liam-Gallagher-in-drag wardrobe as possible.

I particularly like to make an effort when I'm out on the town because I don't get to do it very often, so it was with a mixture of frustration, fury and pea-green envy that I read about Tilda Swinton's decision not to go to the Oscars ceremony this year.

Frankly, I want to slap the woman. She's been nominated for an Oscar; she has the chance to look stunning in front of most of the world's television-watching population in a free, fabulous, couture dress and jewels; she has been invited to flounce, swan, sashay and generally strut her stuff to her heart's content before awestruck billions, and what does she do? She says – with supremely irritating indifference – that she's going to stay put in her Highland manse, where she and her family will "all be at home in our pyjamas watching it on television".

Sorry, but I'm starting to feel a bit faint. Tilda, what are you thinking? Are you seriously saying you'd rather watch everyone else enjoy glamorous fun in the sun, while you sit there in your jim-jams, throwing another log on the fire and stockpiling Damart undies until Nairnshire finally thaws out?

At first I tried to come to terms with this outrageously ungrateful decision by convincing myself that Swinton was simply trying to show some solidarity with Hollywood's striking writers, but that explanation doesn't wash at all.

First, with the latest breakthrough in negotiations, the strike looks as though it could be over at any moment and, even if it isn't, it's certainly looking increasingly unlikely that the dispute will still be running on 24 February when the Academy Awards are taking place. Second, she never mentions the writers' strike in her remarks, preferring to say that the ceremony – which is currently scheduled to go ahead whether the writers like it or not – "will be fantastic" and that "it's a big old jamboree, but I'm all for it". So why the heck isn't she packing her glad rags and leaping on to a 747 as we speak?

Tilda's cool disinterest in what is the pinnacle of most people's career achievement is bringing out the desperate wannabe in me. For someone who grasps greedily at the paltry straw of a night out in Edinburgh, the idea that she is willingly refusing the chance to shine like a star on the most glittering night of the dressing-up calendar is beyond comprehension.

Attending a function like the Oscars is tantamount to having a free, no-strings-attached second wedding day, with all the attendant preening and flouncing – and oh, how I love a good flounce. Tilda, you don't even have to sit through the boring bits; just dazzle on the red carpet, grab the goody bag and sneak off early to the parties.

For most right-thinking individuals, a posh night on the razzle – of which the Oscars ceremony has to be the ultimate example – is something (possibly a once-in-a-lifetime something) to be thoroughly relished and anticipated. I love my family, but if I had to choose between spending Oscar night at home in tartan flannel, in the arms of my beloved with assorted adorable kiddies all sitting in their pyjamas on the sofa chorusing: "Well done Mummy!" or being in LA, parading around in bejewelled vintage Valentino, schmoozing George Clooney and basking in the adulation of my astonishingly accomplished peers, then consider me there at the Kodak Theatre with bells on, thank you very much.

OK, she may well not win that Best Supporting Actress statuette, but that's not a remotely good enough reason for Tilda to reject the knees-up of all knees-ups.

I can't stand by while such an amazing opportunity for full-on flouncing goes so unappreciated, so Tilda, if you can't be bothered to make the effort, please, I'm begging you, let me go in your place.

I promise I will relish every second of the exquisite experience. If the writers are still striking, I'll crash the picket line; I'll pose perfectly in Prada; I'll smile graciously if you lose; and, if you win, rest assured, I have a great speech already prepared.

And I may even mention you in it.