I’ve learnt to be super careful when I go to London for work.
My cup runneth over and made for the door
It’s not that I’m concerned about my own personal safety, or health (though I often need to wash the grime off my fingers when I return. The Tube is filthy!) No, I learnt early on that I needed to dress carefully.
I’ve become quite slack in my work day dress. It’s not that I work in my PJs or even type in the bath, but I typically wear trousers and casual long sleeved t-shirts. Not clothes that scream professionalism, but then I live in a very non-descript little North Hampshire town, we’re not big on workwear here, unless it’s fluorescent yellow ‘Elf and Safety vests.
So when I go to London I need to make a bit of an effort. You know, to look like the cut and thruster I obviously am. I even wear a suit on occasion, but mostly it’s a good top and trousers. I learnt to not wear skirts from that one time when my skirt rode up and became a muff-tickling-scarf. A-hem!
Yes, that’s the other thing. I need to dress carefully because of all the wardrobe malfunctions.
There was the time I broke my heel in the middle of Cheapstreet on the way to the Financial PR. I hobbled in looking pink as a pig in a pickle and not at all cool calm and collected and ready to deliver a bollocking brief! The next time I went to London I wore flat soled shoes. But there was a problem. My feet swelled with all the walking, my shoes did not. It’s the cobbles, they’re a killer.
Then there was that other time when I realised that the sweater top I had carefully matched with my grey suit was decorated with large coffee stains across my decolletage, and I had to buy a replacement at the Monsoon at Waterloo station on my way to my conference. It wasn’t until the day was done and I was taking off the brand new pink finely woven sweater that I realised every single person had been spying my black bra showing through, all day!
Add to this the memories of – evening dress furry stole breaking and having to be pinned together with a large broach (once again thank you Monsoon at Waterloo); my handbag breaking and having to carry it all out in front as if it was the chamber pot; the wasabi incident (don’t ask) and the open trouser zip and let’s just say, I dress carefully now. Lesson learnt.
I went to London on Wednesday. I carefully dressed. Smart casual, you could say. I popped a pair of flat shoes in my bag, and a lipstick and I even hovered over a safety pin. I had enough in my work bag to survive on a small desert island for a week. Like every good Girl Guide I was prepared.
Flat shoes – check.
Spare lipstick – check.
Mobile charger – check.
Cheeky stop off at Boots to spritz with lovely but mortgage busting tester Gucci Guilty Intense parfum – check.
Clean knickers in case of emergency trip in ambulance after bus running me over – check.
I was looking good. I was smart, professional, working girl about town in my velvet coat (a designer recycle special) and my spotty scarf. I wielded my Oyster card with intent. I strode purposefully through Covent Garden in search of the cute little Notes cafe (damn good coffee). I smiled and greeted Joseph from NZ News UK with enthusiasm and as I went to all-in-one-movement-take-off-coat-and-sit-down….. I felt a devastating snap, and a sharp lash of elastic.
Elle McPherson was no longer cradling my girls.
My right sister was without full support. My cup runneth over and started for the door and the blue skies of freedom. She’s served me well, that red little lacy number, but when it came to the rigor, the harsh unrelenting stress and demand of working in London, Elle had let me down.
And with that wardrobe malfunction came the realisation that my professional working personna is dead, or at least needs to be clothed more sympathetically.
Do you think I could get away with a kaftan?
I've learnt to be super careful when I go to London for work.
[caption id="attachment_4583" align="alignright" width="229" caption="My cup runneth over and made for the door"][/caption]
It's not that I'm concerned about my own personal safety, or health (though I often need to wash the grime off my fingers when I return. The Tube is filthy!) No, I learnt early on that I needed to dress carefully.
I've become quite slack in my work day dress. It's not that I work in my PJs or even type in the bath, but I typically wear trousers and casual long sleeved t-shirts. Not clothes that scream professionalism, but then I live in a very non-descript little North Hampshire town, we're not big on workwear here, unless it's fluorescent yellow 'Elf and Safety vests.
So when I go to London I need to make a bit of an effort. You know, to look like the cut and thruster I obviously am. I even wear a suit on occasion, but mostly it's a good top and trousers. I learnt to not wear skirts from that one time when my skirt rode up and became a muff-tickling-scarf. A-hem!
Yes, that's the other thing. I need to dress carefully because of all the wardrobe malfunctions.
There was the time I broke my heel in the middle of Cheapstreet on the way to the Financial PR. I hobbled in looking pink as a pig in a pickle and not at all cool calm and collected and ready to deliver a bollocking brief! The next time I went to London I wore flat soled shoes. But there was a problem. My feet swelled with all the walking, my shoes did not. It's the cobbles, they're a killer.
Then there was that other time when I realised that the sweater top I had carefully matched with my grey suit was decorated with large coffee stains across my decolletage, and I had to buy a replacement at the Monsoon at Waterloo station on my way to my conference. It wasn't until the day was done and I was taking off the brand new pink finely woven sweater that I realised every single person had been spying my black bra showing through, all day!
Add to this the memories of - evening dress furry stole breaking and having to be pinned together with a large broach (once again thank you Monsoon at Waterloo); my handbag breaking and having to carry it all out in front as if it was the chamber pot; the wasabi incident (don't ask) and the open trouser zip and let's just say, I dress carefully now. Lesson learnt.
I went to London on Wednesday. I carefully dressed. Smart casual, you could say. I popped a pair of flat shoes in my bag, and a lipstick and I even hovered over a safety pin. I had enough in my work bag to survive on a small desert island for a week. Like every good Girl Guide I was prepared.
Flat shoes - check.
Spare lipstick - check.
Mobile charger - check.
Cheeky stop off at Boots to spritz with lovely but mortgage busting tester Gucci Guilty Intense parfum - check.
Clean knickers in case of emergency trip in ambulance after bus running me over - check.
I was looking good. I was smart, professional, working girl about town in my velvet coat (a designer recycle special) and my spotty scarf. I wielded my Oyster card with intent. I strode purposefully through Covent Garden in search of the cute little Notes cafe (damn good coffee). I smiled and greeted Joseph from NZ News UK with enthusiasm and as I went to all-in-one-movement-take-off-coat-and-sit-down..... I felt a devastating snap, and a sharp lash of elastic.
Elle McPherson was no longer cradling my girls.
My right sister was without full support. My cup runneth over and started for the door and the blue skies of freedom. She's served me well, that red little lacy number, but when it came to the rigor, the harsh unrelenting stress and demand of working in London, Elle had let me down.
And with that wardrobe malfunction came the realisation that my professional working personna is dead, or at least needs to be clothed more sympathetically.
Do you think I could get away with a kaftan?
Tagged as:
funny,
Kiwi expat blogger,
Kiwi living in UK,
Notes cafe,
NZ News UK,
wardrobe malfunction,
working in London
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