Lukewarm turkey

I was going to write about my weekend, a harmless discussion of the great performance piece I saw at the National on Friday evening, Domini Public, where we all wore cordless headphones and had to stand in different places or make certain gestures depending on whether we were born in London, or had ever photographed ourselves naked, or earned over £20k, or had children, or had followed a stranger down the street, or believed that hierarchies were necessary to 'get things done'. It was interesting enough watching people move around the square, seeing who answered what to which question. And then there was the twist, which was unpleasant and fascinating, and ended up in me (amongst others) being mock-shot by my friend, Tracey, in front of a hundred strangers. It was a great hour, excellent value for £10, and I'd encourage you to go if the run hadn't already ended.

I was also going to tell you all that, if you are remotely interested in the National Theatre, you should definitely pay £7 at some point and go on one of their backstage tours. After years of good intentions, I took one on Friday before Domini Public and it was a rewarding way to spend an hour and a quarter, filled with gems about current and past productions, giving a good insight into the stage management side of things and the props department. Notes I took included the following:

• The National Theatre site is the size of Trafalgar Square, just over two acres
• There are 850 full time employees
• The biggest theatre, the Olivier, has 1160 seats, and more lights than seats
• The stage and seating in the Olivier is based around a traditional Greek amphitheatre, but whereas the latter normally has 180 degree seating around the stage, the Olivier has 118 degrees of seating, which is apparently the extent of male peripheral vision. Women have slightly more. Either way, it means that when you're standing on centre stage, you can see every seat in the house without turning your head. We tried it. It's quite amazing.

And then I also had stuff to say about the next leg of our Capital Ring walk that Kate and I took yesterday, from Wimbledon Park to Richmond, through some gorgeous parkland via deer and the A3. Our next segment takes us under the M4 and I'm weirdly very excited about that. Will be sad when it's all over.

But really what I think will be most of interest is not any of the wonderful, worthwhile activities I've been up to, but the topic that has really been on my mind over the past few days. Inevitably, it is men.

As noted last week, my therapist and I were discussing my desire for a boyfriend. Of course, it is perfectly normal for people to desire a mate. No one would say that there is anything unusual about that. However, I am a little bit different, in that my desire is less for an actual boyfriend (although that would be dandy) and more for the status I perceive I will acquire (in whose eyes, I have no idea) when I gain the acceptance of a respectable male. Being the only child of two wonderful parents who are still crazy (in love) after all these years, where their relationship has been far more a defining factor in their lives than their nationality, their career, their family or their bank balance, it was inevitable that I would grow up thinking that finding a mate was, pretty much, the only thing one needed to do to be viewed as a success.

Then I went to an all-girls boarding school. This was not a sensible move if one was trying to move away from the supremacy of Acceptance By Relationship. In between the near-constant steamy lesbian shower sessions, our focus was entirely on boyfriends. Not on sex. Not on kissing. Just boyfriends. In my seven years there, I never once felt pressured by my peers to lose my virginity; in my recollection, sex was barely even discussed. All we cared about was getting someone to go out with you. You could kiss someone at a party one weekend and come back to school. "Did you get off with anyone?" the ganets would ask. Occasionally, you would excitedly nod yes, blocking out the fact that his train tracks cut your tongue and that it was really difficult to feel like this was a romantic zenith when you're kissing on a bouncy castle and you can hear someone being sick in the rosebushes. But, to the ganets, the snog was not the goal. This was just an amuse bouche before the main event: possible boyfriendom. And so the agonising wait began, each morning's post a crushing disappointment as the longed-for letter with the appalling handwriting and Slough postmark failed to arrive. Finally, a couple of weeks later, you'd hear that the boy in question had pulled Clarissa at the Mariners and it would become clear that the relationship about which you'd fantasized (in between calculating how to get Take That to perform an impromptu gig in the Middle IV common room) was clearly over before it had begun.

And so the snog would be rendered meaningless, because it had come to nothing. Kissing wasn't an end in itself. All that mattered was finding long-term commitment. Getting someone to fancy you enough to stick their tongue down their throat was no challenge; getting someone to stick their necks out and tell their friends that they liked you, now that was a compliment. Without that, without the superior gender (and it wasn't stated like that, but that's how it felt) waving their wand (and it wasn't stated like that either, but who are we kidding?) in our direction, giving us their blessing, saying 'You are pretty, you are attractive, I am male, I know these things,' then we were failures. But all along, I was also a pain in the ass. I didn't just want ANY boyfriend. I wanted one I respected, one who I found attractive and interesting. So 99% of the time, when a guy was interested in me, I shut it down. Because they were normally complete freaks and, somewhat like Groucho Marx, I didn't want to be a member of any club who'd have me with their member.

Fast forward sixteen years, and here I am, nine days away from my 33rd birthday, and my subconscious still spends far too much time shouting at the rest of me that, unless a man tells me I am his be all and end all, I will have failed - but I am still enough of a pain in the ass that I won't settle for anyone unless they rock my tiny world. So I have been searching, and rejecting, and being rejected, for too long and it's tiring. And thus, last Wednesday, I agreed with my therapist that I would take a break from looking. That even though I have been trying, whether consciously or not, to find a bearable boyfriend every day I've been single over the past decade and a half (which, actually, adding together five years with H, two with Simon, two with Luke and cobbling together the rest, probably adds up to about ten years off the market and five years on), I should now stop the search. Which is about as likely as me deciding to stop breathing.

But bless me, I'm trying. I removed my profile from the dating website I was on, and I must say, after my collated run of morons, that has felt less like a sacrifice than a sigh-heaving relief. And I am not going speed dating tonight, even though I bought the £10 ticket ages ago and I think I look quite good at the moment as I have a new dress that goes well with my unexpected suntan (shoulders and face only - the remainder of me still has the colour and texture of an uncooked Eccles cake) gathered on yesterday's walk. I am trying very hard indeed to forget about flirting, and have managed to cut back to only one extremely slow e-banter conversation that I don't think will come to anything really, since the guy in question is even more judgmental than I am, and not only wouldn't want to be a member of any club who would have him as a member, but would actively want to nail gun anyone who suggested such a thing and consider doing so as a public service, because surely any girl who wanted to meet him would be a danger to herself and society at large. There's a fair bit of self-loathing there. But underneath all that he's quite funny and I'd be interested to meet him. OTHER THAN THAT there is no one. I promise. I'm being good.

Still, it's like giving up heroin. I imagine. What is the methodone equivalent for people who are addicted to finding a relationship? Lots of meaningless sex wouldn't work because it's the social acceptance I crave from a third party, who has to be male, saying 'I am handsome and funny and intelligent. And I want to spend my time with you.' Ultimately, I have to believe that that is a load of crap and that the only person who decides whether I am good enough is me, and why would I entrust such a fundamental role to some stupid man who doesn't even know me very well? But that kind of cheesy, American self-acceptance is probably a long way off, not helped by the fact that everywhere I go, everyone admits that life is better when you're in a relationship, and that being single is a lonely pastime for people who are unlucky and/or not good enough. It's freaking annoying because I am clearly amazing, hilarious and, in almost every way, happy.

And that's what I keep finding weird: beyond the Seal of Approval thing that I so obviously want from a boyfriend, I'm not that bothered. As I've pointed out many times before (but not so much that this lady is thought to be protesting too much), my life is pretty much perfect. I don't sit looking woefully at the other end of my sofa thinking it's lacking a scrotum. I am not gagging to have babies just yet - walking past countless suffocating family picnics in the sun yesterday afternoon I heaved many a sigh of relief that my neck doesn't yet have that extortionate albatross swinging off it. I don't need a boyfriend to do my DIY - I feel pretty capable of most things and my dad is more than adequate for the rest. I don't feel I need a man to organise my bills, or earn money, or take me to the cinema. In fact, the fear that he might at any point vanish/die can make relationships so unpleasant that I'm not sure they're even worth it. Really, I just want one to say he's my boyfriend so everyone knows I've passed The Test, appear with me at the odd function, and kiss me regularly. Oh, and I'd like one to come to the opera with me. A night at Covent Garden is the most romantic experience I can imagine and going with girls feels wrong. I've got tickets for two productions this autumn and if I don't have a man at my side for at least one of them I'll strop. Since I'm not allowed to actively pursue anyone, if you're single, in possession of a Y chromasome and would like to be considered for this role, feel free to drop me a line via the comments section. It's Rigoletto and Cosi Fan Tutti. Don't all shout at once.

Ehowtogetbeatenup

Still on yesterday's school reunion tip, I feel I must share with the uninitated a selection of suggestions that I stumbled across here, describing how to prepare for a high school get-together.

1. Dedicate yourself to an exercise regime. In the months leading up to the big event, tone up, burn some calories and get physically fit. You'll not only look better, but you'll feel more confident.

OK. Given that I found the site less than 24 hours before the reunion, I left it a little too late to action this. Even so, I had fortunately considered that my appearance should be at top notch on the big day, so I was thrilled when I stepped on the scales on Saturday morning and found that I'd actually gained nearly a kilogram last week. Additionally, my face had chosen to reward me for my largely spot-free teenage years by breaking out in a liberal sprinkling of zits. Excellent.

2. Splurge on a stylish outfit. Don't break the bank, but treat yourself to some flattering new duds that accentuate your assets.

Assuming that turning up to the reunion wearing a burka might be thought of as a little odd, I didn't have many options. It was far too late to buy something new so I went in an old dress from Marks and Spencer's, the only selling point of which is its low neck - normally I'd hope that my cleavage may distract from my face, but in a room full of heterosexual girls, I knew I was barking up a tree of desperation. On the upside, I gained solace from the knowledge that I am not a person who uses the word 'duds' instead of 'clothes'.

3. Pay a visit to your hairdresser. Update your look with a new cut or color. Whatever you choose, make sure it's different from the style you had in high school. If you're not ready to lop off those locks, opt for a trendy up-do.

This tip had me crying with relief that I no longer have to write crap like that for magazines. And also slightly panicking that my appointment with my beloved Japanese hairdresser isn't until next Tuesday. My roots are almost longer than the dyed portion of my hair and the style doesn't know whether it's 60s or 70s, long or short, blonde or brown. In short, it looks awful. Ah well. I reminded myself that these people knew me when I went to school, so there's little point pretending that I'm anything other than rank - they know the truth.

4. Define yourself professionally. Even if you're in-between jobs and not exactly sure of your career path, prepare an impressive response. You're likely to be asked what you do for a living more than once.

Define yourself professionally?! FFS. I've been trying to do that since the late nineties. My career path is about as easy to define as irony. At this point, the tips were making me want to skip the reunion and stay at home doing something more fun, like stabbing myself in alternate ears with skewers. Mercifully, on the day itself, the only two people who asked me about my job were two old teachers - my peers either know the truth already or didn't care, and for that I love them.

5. Count your blessings and your bragging rights. From your perfect children to that marathon you ran, recall your many accomplishments. You'll want to mention these things at the reunion.

Oh yes! Of course! Thank god you reminded me about the CHILDREN I DON'T HAVE AND THE MARATHON I HAVE NEVER RUN. I recall my many accomplishments. They include interviewing Britney Spears on the phone over a decade ago and then listening back to the tape and becoming convinced that the PR had sent a stand in, so the rest of my office were helpless with laughter that I'd actually spent half an hour on the phone talking to 'Jipney'. And there was that time I fixed my washing machine unaided in 2008. I no longer feel like doing the ear skewer thing. Suicide is clearly the only option.

In addition to the five dos, there are also a few additional pointers, including the helpful suggestion that I bring my business cards (which I don't have because I am SUCH AN UNDERACHIEVER) and a warning not to drink away my nerves. Apparently it's fine to loosen up with a couple of drinks but we should be careful not to overdo it. Lolz etc. As if I would need to be told not to overdo it! Moi, the epitome of self-control and abstinence?! In the event, I took things at my usual refined pace, only having very small, delicate sips of sparkling wine, white wine and red wine, and going to bed at the civilized hour of 3am after re-straining my right groin muscle while attempting to pole dance in the sixth form common room.

So, thanks to ehow for telling me that I should turn up in precisely the opposite state to that in which I managed to arrive, and then behave in a manner absolutely not like my own character, while handing out BUSINESS CARDS.

LLFF's tips for a reunion are as follows:

1. Don't bother getting too dressed up, losing loads of weight or doing an 'ornate up do' because you'll look like a wanker. Plus, everyone will know you never normally look like that - we've all seen you on Facebook.
2. Don't worry about your job or your achievements - no one worth your time gives a flying fuck what you do between nine to five, they just want to see that you're happy and healthy.
3. Take business cards and hand them out. If you truly are that much of a dick, this is a helpful way of identifying yourself to the people who aren't over-formal nightmares.
4. Drink as much booze as you can possibly pour down your gullet. You've paid for it, you may as well enjoy it.
5. Finally, never ever rely on the internet for tips about anything. The content is written exclusively by morons. Oh.

School daze

I don't get paid to write this blog, and it's meant to be a personal record, so I don't tend to take the writing process too seriously. But this weekend I went back to my old boarding school for a fifteen year reunion, and I have lots to say. I want to write about it well. But I am so dead with exhaustion, I don't know how it will come out. I'll start it now, and if I have to abandon ship half way through, I apologise. It's possibly not the writing technique Charlie Brooker would use, but then I'm not Charlie Brooker and this isn't a weekly column for a national newspaper. As far as I'm aware.

I sent the first email about the reunion last August, to the school, to see what they thought about a group of us coming to spend a night there sometime in 2010. Eight months and hundreds of communiques later, 30 old girls and a clutch of older teachers returned to our even older school, drank tea and then, once the teachers had left, had a tour and a lot of good food and wine, and not enough sleep. The school buildings have changed a fair bit, but everything is basically the same in all the good ways, just a bit more modern: totally recognisable to me, and still familiar.

But what was personally surprising was how little emotion I felt. I had the very potent sense of being a completely different person to the girl I was at school - not just the expected progression of feeling older and wiser, but absolutely and unbreachably separate from that other Jane, a distant relative with whom I have no desire to be friends or penpals. My school days were immensely happy in part and I made some friends for life, of that there is no doubt. But I was also miserable at times, like any child, and there is much of that period that I have happily left behind forever; it's not locked away or festering in a pit of denial, it's just... it's gone and I grieve it not. I am infinitely happier now than I ever was in my teens - even at my most miserable these days, I am markedly better off - and I think I enjoyed the reunion as a fun gathering of people whose company I enjoy in the present, rather than an opportunity to nostalge about the past.

The other oddity was seeing the school as part of a group of parents. Of the 30 of us there on Saturday, many are now mothers, and the conversation inevitably turned to whether we plan to educate our children privately or not. In helping us to organise the reunion, the school is, I'm sure, hoping that several of our number choose to send their daughters there in a few years, but even if the desire is genuine, the reality may make it impossible for all but the wealthiest. With fees now around £28k per annum, plus extras, this means that, for every girl they send to the school, a parent needs to be earning around £55k before tax. If you have, say, two kids at private boarding schools with no scholarships, that's around £110k per year on school fees alone - no mortgage, no holidays, no debt repayment, no theatre tickets. I just cannot imagine ever being able to afford that - but many people I know will find the money somehow.

Fortunately for my bank balance, I still don't see myself sending my fictional child to private school. Of course, my opinions will all change the moment I give birth, but right now, I still have a problem with it. Looking round the school over the weekend, I was shocked at the difference in experiences a girl would have there vs. a state-run comprehensive. The facilities are exceptional - a vast fitness centre with a dance studio, a massive theatre and drama department, an incredible music block with an inspirational young head at the helm, and some of the best academic records in the country. Going to that school for seven years would be amazing. But... it's an amazing bubble. As longtime LLFF readers will know, I left school without any grasp of general knowledge. I'd been spoonfed to get top grades in my exams - but I couldn't have told you what communism was, nor defined the major differences between the political parties. I knew a bit about WWII, but nothing about WWI. I knew something about Shakespeare, but I wouldn't have been able to tell you who was on the throne at the time he was writing. My knowledge was a collection of essays, pre-written in my head. The only stuff outside those topics was Take That and outrage that my friend's brother appeared to find my pale skin, under-developed facial features and deep-seated insecurities eminently resistable.

I left school aged 17 with three good A levels and the unearned social self-confidence that is both part of the appeal and one of the biggest flaws of private education. Would I have been happier if I'd gone to a local state school? Who can say. Given that I have depression and believe that I definitely was a sufferer while I was at school, the chances are I would have found those years a struggle anywhere. As it was, I got good results, developed a lifelong love of choral singing which I'd hate to have missed out on, and made fantastic friends. I consider myself lucky to have gone there. But god it was a bubble. I was a naive dickhead when I left - I knew jack shit about the real world and, fifteen years later, I still feel like I'm playing a game of catch-up. Do I really want to spend £55k p.a. (plus at least 15 years' inflation) to turn my kids into naive dickheads with great A level results?

More than just a debate about my own kids elect, there's the bigger discussion about the UK and humanity. On a broad political level, I believe passionately in equality of opportunity - and there's no doubt that the continued existence of private school is about as much of a two fingers up at fairness as you can get. These days I rarely feel as though I am in an environment where the majority of people are ridiculously wealthy and privileged, so Saturday was an odd sensation for me, as we all chatted and laughed while being served canapes and glasses of sparkling wine by a wonderful team of caterers who live in the local town. I was deeply uncomfortable with a strong sense of them and us - not that we're bad people and not that they hated us, but just that it's not FAIR and, although I know life isn't fair, surely we should all do our bit not to perpetuate systems with which we wholeheartedly disagree?

If I were Prime Minister, it would be my number one priority to bring state school standards up to those of the private ones, with the explicit and stated intention of closing down all private schools within a certain number of years. But that's a fantasy - the reality is that state schools are very hit and miss, some excellent, some rubbish, and depending on where you live, the options can be free and great or terrifyingly bad. Until state education is a lot better, I wouldn't want to deny wealthy parents the opportunity of paying for private. But I'd like to get to a point where the richest don't have the need nor the desire to segregate their own from the hoi polloi, where we can all happily grow up together as equals, free from this apartheid that still feeds the old British class divides. What sounds like utopia to me probably sounds like a nightmare to others, but that's what I was thinking about on the journey back to London yesterday. And it's SO lucky that I have my opinions on this all sorted out, given that I am unattached and about as likely to get pregnant as my own mother. PHEW.

Never forgotten

Today's LLFF is brought to you by escapism. I have spent the past 36 hours in a slight haze, but managed to get through yesterday thanks to a backlog of episodes of American Idol, including a gripping Hollywood Week four-part bonanza. And today, despite mental and physical illness, I battled in to work and found my Amazon order had arrived, containing several exciting books (including our next Book Club book and these letters which I can't WAIT to devour) and a new yoga DVD. But the undoubted highlight was volumes 1 and 2 of the Take That hardbacks.

Take That formed in 1990, but I wouldn't have called myself a fan until 1991, when I was 14. It was a slightly tricky time for me: I wasn't doing that well at school, I didn't feel like I had any talent at sport, I was OK at singing and acting but definitely in the B team... I had minimal identity and, as an only child used to walking around my home with a metaphorical spotlight following me, this lack of Ready Brek glow did not sit comfortably. Pop music and American TV gave me something to obsess over - my unbending love of these unknown purveyors of bad songs and bad acting made me feel different. Of course, I didn't think that Take That would find me special. But at school and back in the pub at home, the level of my obsession did make me stand out. Entire friendships were formed on the basis of love for pop culture, friendships with people I still dearly love today (hi Alex!). Good times.

I won't deny that I was a bit mental though. In October 1991, there was a day trip from our boarding school up to Birmingham for the Clothes Show Live! experience. The idea was, we look around, get free makeovers, watch a live catwalk, and then get back in the minibus and return to Wiltshire. Upon arrival at the NEC, my friend Tina and I noticed that Radio One had a roadshow van there. Far more interested in music than clothes, I stuck around, and was soon gobsmacked to find out that Take That would be performing. Forget the models and Jeff Banks in the main arena - here was someone I'd actually heard of. Best of all, when they came on stage, no one else had a clue who these boys were - so when Tina and I were shouting at Jason and Robbie, they could actually hear us and waved. Buoyed, we ran over the edge of the stage when they'd finished performing, and screamed as they ran by. I wasn't sure what I wanted to happen, but it was unexpected to say the least when Robbie, and then Jason, gave me a wet kiss, with tongues, as they ran off towards their changing room. Extraordinary. Even funnier was that Robbie looked at Tina, who, wanting an autograph more than a snog, uttered the immortal line, 'Do you have a pen?' Strangely, he hadn't gone on stage with a biro.

Buoyed further, Tina and I followed 'the lads' to the lifts, where they went up and started shouting at us over a balcony for us to follow. We weren't allowed up in that lift, but managed to sneak up in another one with a cleaner and then spent 45 minutes with the five of them, sitting on the floor and chatting while they gave us their autographs and Howard admired the red bandana I had tied round my wrist (and consequently didn't remove for approx. the next four years). I'll never forget climbing back into the minibus at the end of the day - the other girls looked at Tina and I with shock, disbelief and scorn oozing from every pore. "You missed the CATWALK to meet TAKE THAT?!" they chorused, gobsmacked. "Yup," I said, without a trace of regret.

Five years later, I was at university when the band broke up, and I remember being late for a lecture as a result - urgent conference calls with Eva had been necessary to discuss the announcement and plan for a Take That-free future. I had seen them live five times, waited outside Capital Radio to photograph them when I should have been revising for my GCSEs, and written them countless letters (unsent) explaining why and how they should come to our school to give a unique performance and allow Howard the once-in-a-lifetime opportunity to fall for me, the most wonderful, lank-haired, pasty-faced, overly-eyebrowed, awkwardly-curvy, posh-speaking girl he'd never love.

Years after that, in fact, I did finally interview Howard, in a pub in Shepherd's Bush, while he was promoting his DJ career. He was a lovely man, but intensely shy and clearly a lost soul. It's safe to say that we never were, and never will be, a match made in heaven. Still think he's fit though. Funny how life turns out.

Since they reunited, my TT obsession has been more muted. To be honest, I don't like much of their music - although I think Shine is a great track. But I do have a fondness for them that might seem absurd to someone who spent their teenage years grounded in reality. Those boys were, for me, an escape from my life. I wasn't depressed back then, but I wasn't really very happy either, and they gave me a focus and a sense of belonging to something, much as following football has given definition and community to generations of men. I don't need that now, my life is full enough and for that I'm grateful, but I spent a happy hour or two reading those books this afternoon and thinking back to those days when five men in terrible outfits could reduce me to a screaming pulp, and if my Dad forgot to video them on Top of the Pops while I was out at the pub, all hell would break loose. God I was a nightmare.

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.