the black suit of our discontent

I'm doing a trial tomorrow night at a restaurant, being their receptionist-greeter-type-person. It's not super excitement plus, but London isn't the cheapest of cities, and I can no longer subsist on punnets of cherry tomatoes. So, restaurant job it is.

Only two problems: one, they want me to take out my nose stud, which doesn't happen. Ever. I can't get it out. I'm going to deal with that one tomorrow, because it's not as important as problem two: they want me to wear a black suit, and I didn't bring one with me.

However, I'm not averse to shopping, and in fact leaped at the opportunity to spend some cash, especially after the recent poverty-induced retail drought (10 days and counting). So I went to Oxford St. Which is a massive mistake in itself, because I hate Oxford St. The place just makes me angry. But even more upsetting and alarming than the hordes of morons shuffling up and down the pavements, with no sense of urgency, or even direction, was the hideous array of black suits I was confronted with.

Cheap fabric, badly cut, unlined and with exposed (no doubt the retailers would call it 'feature') stitching. Massive vom. Someone needs to end this inhumanity (actually, Zara wasn't doing such a bad job, but either they didn't have my size in anything, or the pants didn't have a matching jacket, or vice versa. Very perplexing). I beat a hasty retreat, propelled by my own indignance and sense of good taste.

And now I don't have anything to wear tomorrow.

flannel

it's over. it should never even have started. the '90s were av enough, we don't need to relive them.

that's all.

jackets are not the enemy

I love the Ivy. I really do. I think Cruise Bar and the Argyle are pretty good too. They all look gorgeous, have good-looking bar staff, and non-sticky tables. However, I never go to these places. Apparently, I am inevitably destined (or perhaps doomed) to spend a significant proportion of my weekend in Kings Cross, weaving my way through patches of puke and getting welded to tables that have been liberally soaked with god knows what (I HOPE it's alcohol). And all this is accompanied by the haunting sounds of 'Blister in the Sun,' a favourite of the busker outside New York Slice.

Anyway, over the last few Cross weekends, I have noticed a rather baffling and slightly disturbing trend: Darlinghurst and Bayswater Roads have become infested with girls who don't wear jackets. Or stockings. Or scarves. Or gloves.

Now, in autumn, this behaviour is perfectly acceptable. Still unwise, perhaps, but not completely deranged. Who of us hasn't stood shivering outside World Bar at 3am, on a chilly May morning, waiting for an empty cab to drive past (PS. It usually doesn't)? Trying to convince ourselves it’s still summer, and therefore absolutely fine to go out in next to nothing, is almost a rite of passage.

But when it's July, and it's 8 degrees, I'm sorry, but put a jacket on. You look completely ridiculous. It's annoying carrying round a jacket, believe me, I know. But bring a bag big enough to carry it in, or get your gormless-looking boyfriend to carry it for you. Isn't that what you got him for? And if you're single, take the hint: guys tend not to like girls with blue lips and goose-bump-covered skin.

I know you just adore your new Josh Goot/sass & bide/LIFEwithBIRD dress, and don't see the point in spending that much money on clothes only to cover them up, but let me explain: once inside, the jacket comes off. People will still be impressed by how fabulous you look, and you won't have frostbite. Really, it's a double bonus. Besides, are you really that desperate to wow the people loitering outside 4 Seasons and Mansions?

I must admit though, I suspect I was once one of these girls. I have vague recollections of spending hours sitting outside at raves in the freezing cold, talking to assorted randoms. And then in the morning, waiting for the first train out of Engadine, or god knows where, blue-lipped and goose-bumped. This was probably due to sheer stupidity, rather than wanting to show off my tartan skirt, leg warmers and candy, but regardless, I was the Josh Goot/sass & bide/LIFEwithBIRD girl. All I can conclude from this is that somewhere along the line, without even noticing it happening, I have turned into one of those scowly middle-aged women who tut-tuts 'young people' for listening to their mp3s players at an unacceptable volume, or for wearing chipped nail polish. I have gotten old. And that is perhaps the most upsetting thing of all.

Still, at least I don't have frostbite.