Dress for Success

My mother does many things that grate upon my over-sensitive self, such as having regular and violent sneezing fits that last for over ten minutes while I'm trying to eat breakfast, but thankfully she has never been one of those mothers who has put pressure on me to be in a relationship. One hears these horror stories of pressurising parents who berate their offspring for their lack of long-term love, moaning about dying before the birth of their first grandchild - and continually reciting that hideous pearl of received wisdom: that one should always look one's best, 'just in case'/'because you never know who you might meet'.

I do try and look OK, but I'm certainly on the middle of the scale when it comes to making an effort with my appearance. I do my make-up on the tube every morning, starting at Euston Square and ending between Farringdon and Barbican. If I'm not going out in the evening after work, I will wear boring clothes to the office because they're warm or because they're the right colour to complete a pending darks/whites/wools wash. Don't get me wrong, I absolutely love getting dressed up and looking good - but I'm afraid that the people at work aren't enough motivation.

Yesterday, I did have a post-work engagement: another carol concert, this time for the fabulous Breast Cancer Haven charity. But after three choir concerts in four days, I was pretty certain that I wasn't trying to impress anyone in the choir and, after a good scout round at last year's concert, fairly confident that there would be no frissons with any audience members. Consequently, I left my nice choir outfits on the floor where I'd taken them off on Saturday and Sunday, and instead chose to wear my black work trousers, a passable black jumper and my grandmother's jet beads which added a festive twinkle to an otherwise bland outfit. I looked... fine.

So then we walked on stage and who should be in the front row, directly in my line of sight beyond our conductor, but Rod Stewart; his wife, the model, Penny Lancaster; Chris Tarrant; and almost most upsetting of all, Sarah Beeny. Not that I was hoping to entice any of the above, you understand - but it would have been nice to be feeling slightly more attractive than 'fine'. Fortunately, we sang beautifully: Rod even gave us a spontaneous burst of applause at more than one point and conducted the descant of Hark! The Herald Angels Sing by flapping his black scarf. Hilarious. Maybe those pushy mums have a point when it comes to looking one's best; but judging by my dull as ditchwater office attire today, which could reasonably be sported by a middle-aged American soccer mom, I haven't yet taken the lesson fully on board. The new Jane starts here: from now on, it's handbags and gladrags. I'm still doing my make-up on the tube though.