So today I got dressed with a fatigue beyond measure, decided to opt for a low-key, low-budget bohemian look, and staggered to work in my usual oblivious state of semi-awakedness (is that a word?). I’ll say first, in a premature self-defence, that I’m not known for my sartorial elegence. I have little interest in ‘fashion’ and wear the same clothes for ten years at a time (occasionally washing them of course). I guiltily buy my clothes from cheap sweat-shop stores, or self-righteously from charity shops and have never purchased any garment with a designer label. This is essentially a product of my own poverty as opposed to the response to any kind of clothes shopping choice. I would sometimes like to dress like a movie star but my budget is more ‘Lassie’ than Scartlett Johansson, and thus the inevitable result is that I look like Lassie. Not so today my Bloggy friends. Today I realised, past lunchtime, that I was in fact dressed as a turd. I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror in the ladies toilets and realised the error of my early morning, sleepy scramble into unknown attire. Brown chords, brown dress, brown boots, brown hair. I looked like a big poo. Okay I was ‘accessorized’ with a small, heart shaped necklace, but I looked like a poo adorned with jewellery, which was no better. Probably worse. I can’t seem to get this habilitating right. I remember early this summer stepping off a train in Paddington Station and remarking to my colleagues ‘how come when I leave town I’m comfortably convinced I resemble some kind of bo-ho rock chick and as soon as I step onto London soil (well, concrete) I realise I look like a Romanian Big-Issue seller?’ How we all smiled. The winter is worse. In the summer I can narrow things down to 3 items of apparel – pants, summer dress, shoes. There’s little room for error, although the shoes often rub and the dress I invariably tear just trying to put it on – having been made out of sub-standard cotton by kittens in an unlit cupboard behind a massage parlour. In the winter I have to make practical decisions about being warm, without resembling Chris Bonnington, and yet somehow professional and feminine. I wore woolly tights with a floaty dress the other day – again going for the doomed bo-ho look (I never learn) and spent the whole day in a torrent of discomfort as the dress wound itself around my legs and bunched itself up around my crotch at every third step. I arrived at work wreathed in sweat, trying to disentangle myself from several metres of yellow cotton, with my bra straps round my elbows. Scarlett Johansson would never suffer that indignity. So tomorrow I will bravely sally forth, ignoring my reflection in all shop windows as I hold my chin up and say to myself ‘be not afraid’. This is my own style – it’s not really even style actually – but as long as I don’t look like a poo in a necklace I’m winning.