School ties

On Wednesday, eight of us were at Mills' house for book club (reading the highly recommended - I probably say that every time, but it really is - Dreams from my Father, by the POTUS) and, even by our standards, were struggling to stay on topic. About five minutes into the discussion, Charlotte had already veered off into chatting about Kerry Katona and Jordan, and try as I might to wrench her back onto the straight and narrow subject of racism and black identity, it wasn't long before we were reminiscing about our final years at school and trying to remember whose room was next to whose. Only half joking, I jumped in with both feet, saying, "Let's do a floor plan!" and was secretly thrilled when Mills leapt up as if electrocuted and rushed around supplying pens and scrap paper. Two phonecalls later (including one to a furious Kate, who couldn't have been more livid to be missing the nostalgia-fest), we had it sorted - all fifty-odd of us and which tiny rooms we'd occupied in a boarding school house in south-west England fourteen years ago. The joy we derive from reminiscing may be understandable, but it never fails to surprise me: the same stories still bring tears of helpless mirth to my eyes. No matter how many times I remember Lisa's desperate voice coming through the wall between our rooms, less than thirty minutes before our A Level religious studies exam on John's gospel, asking, "Jaaaane, what's the logos?", a question whose answer had formed the entire basis of two years' study, I still feel the giggles welling up. Shared experience: you can be a loner all you want, you can be truly independent, you can avoid any hint of neediness like the plague, you can be self-sufficient 'til the cows come home, and you won't get hurt so much, and you won't spend as much money, and you won't be so vulnerable - but I guarantee you won't piss yourself laughing so much either.

Andrew the Glastocrush has an important meeting on Monday and as a surprise, I thought I'd get him a new shirt and tie. I can write about this here without ruining the surprise since, as far as I know, he has not yet discovered LLFF. Anyway, so, earlier this afternoon I popped away from my desk and went to the local branch of a swanky shirt-and-tie sellers, and selected two possible shirts, and two possible ties. Then I ditched one of the shirts, and armed with one shirt and two ties, I walked over to a shop assistant who was helping a male customer over by the braces. "Excuse me," I asked in my most polished Helpless Female voice, "but I'd like a male opinion. My boyfriend [I think he is my boyfriend, we discussed it briefly last night, TBC etc. etc., but for reasons of clarity and simplicity I didn't feel the need to go into the complexities of are-we-aren't-we in TM Lewin] has a job interview on Monday. Which of these do you think is best?" I proffered the white shirt and the plain, sky blue tie with subtle herring-bone weave, and the plain purple silk tie in front of them. Like all right-minded people, I think I have impeccable taste, and was expecting both men to deliberate for some time, so befuddled would they be by the brilliance of my choices. So I was little short of deeply offended when they both scrunched up their eyes and sneered slightly at my selection.
"Definitely not the purple," said the assistant. The customer nodded vigorously.
"So the blue?" I asked.
"Weeeelll, it's better than the purple," he said, visibly uncomfortable.
"Where's the interview?" asked the customer. I explained. He looked more pained.
"What about something with a stripe?" he suggested.
"But isn't stripes so conservative and boring? So old school?"
"But you don't want to take any risks," said the customer.
"You're telling me that a plain blue tie is risky?" Suddenly I understood how out of their depth men feel when buying clothes for women. All my certainties evaporated. I trotted back to the tie display and selected four unbelievably boring striped ties in varying shades of inoffensive. I carried them, with the shirt, back to the assistant, who was now helping a different man.
"Please tell me that one of these is OK," I said. Immediately, he discarded two. It is inconceivable that they could have made any sort of impression. I can't even remember what colours they were, and this only happened a few minutes ago. Nonetheless, I was now left with a navy-with-white stripe and a maroon-with-white stripe. If someone had worn either of those things to meet me, I'd have wept silently in anticipation of the vacuous, characterless conversation that would inevitably follow. Clearly, however, the discussion wasn't over.
"What colour is his suit?" asked customer two, eager to get involved.
"Navy," I said.
"Well, go with the maroon then," he said, as if any other choice would make me of questionable intellect. "If you get the wrong shade of navy, it could look terrible. Maroon is less risky."
For a lot of men operating in the financial capital of Europe, if not the world, they are very risk-averse. I blame the credit crunch. Thankfully it has not yet had any impact on my own sartorial selections. Updates as they come in.