Going to Work

I used to be so stylish going to work. I was. I really did. All the latest looks and styles. Suits. Jackets. Shoes. I used to really care. In fact, that used to be one of the fun aspects of going to work, the drag. That was before I got older and my cynicism kicked in. (Actually, that's not true, I was born cynical. 3 month old baby sitting up and questioning the benefits of breast feeding. "Ha, what for? So, I can live longer and become even unhappier?")

Now, I don't care. I really don't. Chinos and black runners and a ribbed zip up jumper that I wear every week.

Nyr, who cares really.

I'm not sure if it is rebellion to going back to the office? You know, we have all seen the promised land and now they want to take it away from us. Maybe?

I keep waiting for someone to comment on my black runners. I mean, they are black leather runners, but runners all the same. They are a pair that I don't really wear any longer and my work shoes split on the righthand side little toe and I had to buy a new pair to replace them, and I just thought fuck it, I'll wear those runners. So, I am.

And since I am only working in the office one day per fortnight – they wanted me to work one day per week, every Monday, but on every other Monday I just text Boris and say I am working from home and it has worked thus far – I've been wearing the same shirt for multiple weeks, which fixes the really detested practice of ironing a shirt pretty much. I'm lucky, as I don't have any body odour to speak of so I can get away with it.

I wear the same thing every second Monday, all midnight blue, and nobody, probably, really notices as there is 2 weeks between appearances. And let’s face it, nobody really cares what you wear anyway. You know, unless I turned up in a swing top, or a corduroy maxi dress, then they'd probably care. Chuckle.