WE live in a world of constant, chaotic change. A dreadful dynamism seems to be the order of the age and we have become accustomed to expecting the unexpected, and ingesting the incongruous. This unexpectedness and incongruity are no more dramatically defined than by those empowered at the very highest level.

The leader of the free world is a reality TV star who has only the most occasional consideration for what might be the truth; the Tories crowned their second female prime minister to lead the rapidly unravelling United Kingdom through a macrocosmic political divorce she didn't want while she tries desperately to stop the microcosmic divorce of Scotland and England; former UK Chancellor George Osborne is single-handedly boosting this quarter's employment figures by taking on as many jobs as he can over and above being an MP ... including taking over the reins of the Evening Standard newspaper.

And now, UK Vogue has joined the bastion of incongruous expectation by appointing its first ever male editor. Surely this is the end of Western civilisation. Fashion followers the world over for decades have venerated Vogue, held it shoulder-high as the very pinnacle of panache, the zeitgeist at its zenith. I’m sure this Edward Enninful is suitably qualified for the job replacing Alexandra Shulman as editor of British Vogue. A former model who is currently creative and fashion director at W, he has three decades of fashion backstory. But, and there’s no easy way to say this, that job was mine. Mine.

When Shulman announced her departure from the role, it was assumed that a title that has for its century-long history been the purvey of women editors would seek to deliver a seamless transition from Shulman’s brilliant tenure by internally promoting from within the magazine.

There can be few publications with as many experienced and capable women who would have fulfilled a life dream to edit Vogue. Like me, they have fashion in their veins, style in their DNA and chic in their soul. The last think anyone might have expected would have been a Ghana-born uber-hipster like Enninful, a man who took the fashion world by storm at the age of 18 and hasn't looked back since. But this was so clearly my job.

I’m only half-joking. I would have loved to edit Vogue. My love of fashion was sparked by my dad, possibly the nattiest, most stylish Indian immigrant to sport alligator skin buckle boots with a drain-pipe three piece suit. The man oozed style. And as young teenagers, me and my wee brother (my elder sibling mysteriously avoided the fashion bug) would regularly raid the big fella’s wardrobe and release back into the wild garments that a forty-something school teacher would never dare wear. I think the big man was quietly happy to see two of his sons adopt his great passion.

And while on the face of it I don’t have the devilishly thin, Prada-wearing figure of Vogue editor-in-chief Anna Wintour, while I don’t have the catwalk cred of Enninful, while I will never have the love of my peers as commanded by the esteemed fashion editor and presenter Hilary Alexander, what I have in spades is a profound and lifelong passion for fashion.

No doubt my Vogue would have been very different in outlook than the existing glossy versions. There might be the “Tattie Scone” feature, clothes constructed solely of potato scones to celebrate 10 years of Lady GaGa’s meat dress; “Killer Kilts”: an interview feature which aims to to get into the mind of convicted killers while they pose in tartan garmentry.

Or how about Sliding Sturgeon: find women called either Nicola or with the surname Sturgeon and dress them in the clothes the First Minister wears and see if anyone asks for a selfie.

Alas, none of these world-class fashion ideas will now ever see the light of publication. Enninful will doubtless fill his pages a with slender, shimmering models draped over rocks as the Atlantic batters in behind them. Much of the same then.

Tectonic plates take time to shift and change; the struggle for women has moved on slightly but in doing so only serves to highlight the journey yet to come. The first black man to edit a fashion magazine is a sign of changing times and sends a message of diversity in a world not noted for diversity. But what a missed chance. How much better would it have been to hire the Glaswegian Sikh fella and his tattie scones?