If my 20 something self could see me now she would be amazed, impressed, possibly a little dissapointed but mostly dismayed by my lack of personal grooming and dress sense of late.
Cycling. It’s great for the muffin top but a killer for the inner-style queen.
I have two bikes. The 2 wheeled equivalent of reconditioned old bangers. The mini-metro of bikes if you will. One gets me reliably to my station. One meets me at Waterloo and carries me sweating and puffing to my office in the West End. I am rather impressed that I have managed to make that sound more glamorous that it is.
But here’s the thing. What do I wear? When I lived in Clapham my office resembled a bring and buy sale at the local village hall. All cardigans, jackets, the odd dress, a million pairs of shoes adorning my walls and a commandeered hat stand that was graced with scarves, coats and the all important gagool (a cylists true friend).
Now, given these harsh economic times, I am sharing my office with someone who unlike me does take care of herself. She looks smart, trendy and above all YOUNG (bitch, I secretly loathe her). I can no longer hang my various items of Primark, M&S and, here’s really admitting something, Tu (Sainsburys – yes I know, but shopping trips are few and far between these days). The site of such things would physically repulse her.
So I am forced to opt for work/cycle wear. A market as yet untapped by the high street designers, can’t think why – seems to me an opportunity just waiting for Kate and Philip (Green) to plunder.
So today, it’s jeans, a New Look top and a pair of Converse. I did pack my high heels, the ones with laces. But on retrieving them from my bag this morning I discovered the toddler had removed the laces from one shoe.
So thank God I share my office with a fashionista. I am now sporting a pair of proper grown up lady shoes. I can barely walk, but that’s just fashion I guess.