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.