Uniform blues

I like to think that I am a diverse sort, familiar with classical and contemporary, fond of ancient and modern, wearer of vintage and new. If someone were to suggest that something unexpected and unusual were to happen to me in the future, I would probably believe them. But despite this conviction in the breadth of my own possibilities, this afternoon I am doing something that I am struggling to accept or admit: I am going for a job interview in the City.

Contradicting everything about which I am passionate, challenging all my long-held confusions and under-developed beliefs, London's business district is as far from my career aspirations as the Rentokill HQ. But, like most of its employees, I am not heading there for a rewarding role in an underfunded charity or kooky publishing house. Rather, I will be on the eastbound District Line headed towards an opportunity to earn larger amounts of money than I've ever been offered in the existence of my curriculum vitae.

The prospective pay packet is appealing, alluring as an opium high - but as I contemplate my single business suit, bought from Next by my mother in 1998 when I was going for my first job as a PR intern, horror washes over me - and not simply due to the glaringly dated cut of the skirt and dust that's gathered on the jacket's shoulders where they've been exposed to the air in my wardrobe. Any career that requires me to wear smart shoes, carry a sensible handbag and quash any outward sign of personality by forcing me into a quasi-uniform sends me into a panic that even sky-high salaries can't assuage. Still, I've got little else to do this afternoon and I figure I may as well go and see what's on offer. Plus at least I can make myself feel good about the fact that I can still fit into a skirt I last wore over a decade ago - although I'm not entirely sure that my porcine 19-year-old frame is something I should really be clamouring to maintain. See you on the other side.