My costumes have varied wildly throughout the years, although most have the common theme of cross-dressing: there was a disturbing two-year period as Packie Bonner; one with a black sack and a giant inflatable yellow spider strapped to my head; a bank robber (although I never quite understood why the bank robber would go into the bank in pyjamas with arrows on them . . . surely that bit came after);

Dracula and an unsuccessful mummy thanks to the rain turning my toilet-paper based costume into grey sludge.

A fair few of my childhood Hallowe'ens were spent as Hannibal Lector, an NFL player and a three-headed devil, trick or treating around the shops in Floridian malls because it was seen as too dangerous by the paranoid Americans to go around normal houses.

I spent one Hallowe'en a couple of years ago in the middle of a riot in Salem, Massachusetts dressed as a pirate, running away from the lines of police horses with a viking, Cleopatra, Sandra Dee and a cow.

More recently I have been Courtney Love and The Dude.

But this year there are two big Hallowe'en parties in my neck of the woods. I've prepared for them with glee with three costumes on stand-by: Wayne Campbell from Wayne's World, April O'Neil from Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles and Amy Winehouse. But this is the first year I've decided to reflect and philosophise on what these costumes actually mean. What makes some girls choose to be zombies and other to be foxy coppers and the like?

A costume is no good unless you can look attractive. (Unless it's an amazing costume . . . step forward that couple I met last year who could actually jointly transform into Optimus Prime. Respect. ) But the 'but I still have to look GOOD' factor rules out a lot of things for women. Then there's the fine line between looking cool, participatory and cute and going too far. You really have to wonder about those girls who turn up to parties dressed as strippers or prostitutes. I'm sure Freud would have something to say about that. As would I: if you dress ho-ish people presume this is what you aspire to be. Or are.

And there is absolutely no point in refusing to dress up.

Last Hallowe'en, I was in a complete fowler and dragged myself out of the flat to a fancy dress party sans costume, in my normal clothes. "Oh, Pete Doherty, very good, " people said. I went along with it for pride's sake.

It's also tricky choosing a celebrity.

Because if you dress up as, say, Angelina Jolie, what you're really saying is, "I think I could possibly be as hot as Angelina Jolie. Amn't I great."

Which will make everyone hate you and make you wish you'd gone with the Shrek mask. When I told my sister I was planning on doing the whole Amy Winehouse thing, her response was a scoff and:

"Well, you'd want to lose a bit of weight before Wednesday." Good point. In the end, my costume trial looked more like a goth Vickey Pollard living in a trailer park than Ms Wino.

So Amy Winehouse is now off the list. Thankfully, because I was not alone. I know four Amy Winehouses this year. In fact, there was so much Amy Winehouse overlapping ahead of the party I'm attending tonight that I suggested we just ALL go as Amy Winehouse. The cowgirl and Simon Cowell weren't up for it though. So what's with Amy?

Well, as a costume idea, she's instantly recognizable (my flatmate . . . who is transforming into Axl Rose . . . was told by the cashier at Urban Outfitters that the novelty tattoo plasters that they sell were flying off the shelves such was Amy Winehouse's popularity for Hallowe'en parties. ). She's topical, too, what with all those overdoses and Mercury-nominated records.

And she's cool. She is, along with Madeleine McCann, the ubiquitous iconic figure of 2007.

And Amy Winehouse pretty much sums up where a lot of young women are at in this country at the moment. Drunken, drugged up, powerful, successful, a tough veneer covering up an incredibly fragile core. She is the worst and best role model. People don't mind dressing up as her. I can't imagine many women dressing up as Lily Allen or Paris Hilton or Britney Spears (although the latter would be pretty easy: knickers, bra, fags).

Winehouse, despite her endless troubles and bizarre rationale (she explained her last scrap with her husband . . . "all I was doing was a load of coke with a call girl in a hotel room and he tried to stop me" . . . or something to that effect. Oh, well that's ok then) is the celebrity we want to be. She's not pretty, she's incredibly reckless, she has a drug habit that would make Pete Doherty blush, she makes mad decisions in love and knocks off work in favour of boozing around. She makes holding it together worthy of Olympic sport status. Yes, we all want to be Amy.

So happy Hallowe'en. And if you haven't got your beehive wig sorted already, don't bother searching for one. Everywhere I looked had sold out.