I had a very important meeting yesterday. I was pitching story ideas to an editor. Ooo-la-lah.
So I thought I should dress the part. I dusted off my old work clothes, only to discover they were covered in mould. I suppose that’s what happens when your wardrobe is positioned next to a bathroom with a dodgy exhaust fan and you shove all your worky stuff away for more than a year and just wear slummy cargo pants or leggings every day.
I really should have staff, like in Downton Abbey, to ensure everything gets a good airing. Lady Mary’s clothes would never get mouldy; Anna would be mortified.
I stared forlornly at my lovely black denim Marc by Marc Jacobs skirt covered in mildew. I gazed in dismay at my work boots, all furry. Then I began fretting about lengths and cuts and colours and stuff. Was I hopelessly out of fashion? How long were skirts supposed to be this season?
I had no idea.
Why should that matter, you ask? Ah, but it does when you work in the women’s magazine industry. I learned that very early on, after being sent home to change one day because my Stuart Membery chambray ensemble was deemed unsuitable for an advertising lunch.
Over the years it’s been persistently flogged into me: what you wear and its degree of fashionableness is VERY important. Style first. Substance second.
Fortunately, I won’t be working at head office. Head office is quite scary with its parade of haute gazelles. My desk is positioned in a boondocks outpost near the blokes who do the dirt bike magazine, so style won’t be nearly as important.
My desk … Argh. Less than two weeks until I start work in an office again.
Deep breaths …
PS The meeting with the editor went really well, she loved all my ideas (and my shoes ) (thank god for plastic Marc by Marc Jacobs sandals, they never go mouldy). Now there’s just the tiny problem of finding time to write anything.