Fashion dissonance

As I was legging it to the executive washroom earlier, I passed-by a chap in the corridor.  He was making a phone call, and would have escaped my notice entirely were he not wearing the world's most outrageous shirt.

It wasn't one of those kak-handed hysterically-coloured "Behold - I'm unconventional" ones that certain men sport in offices.  Oh, no - it was made of flannel, and had large ugly embroidered roses all over it.  It reminded me of the kind of material your grandmother would have had best tablecloth rendered in - not the everyday tablecloth, just the best one.

At first I thought he must have got changed in the dark, or been sick on himself en route to work and had had to duck into SCOPE for a replacement chemise.  But he had a certain swagger about him, this fellow, so it can't have been that.  We've all, I'm sure, pitched-up chez work looking a little shabby from time-to-time.  Christ alone knows I have.

When I was young and foolish, any dishevelment was generally due to my having been out on the pop the night before.  I'd always make a point of doing the ironing before retiring to bed, no matter how King Knuted I was - better that than do it with a hangover the following morning.  The trouble is of course that one's technique goes to cock in a handcart when pissed, so I always turned-up looking like I'd attempted to iron my shirt with a freezing-cold corrugated cheese grater.

A friend of mine was so impoverished as a student that he owned only one shirt, and had to wash it every night while he was temping during the holidays .  He was also notoriously thirsty and would stagger in of an evening only when the pubs shut.  He'd then have to wash his shirt in the kitchen sink before turning-in.  Luckily, the shirt was made exclusively of petrochemicals and repelled water like a two-stone Canada Goose, so it was always dry enough to wear the following morning.

Now I'm longer of tooth, I only turn-up to work looking like I've been hauled through a hedge fund backwards if there's been a consumer-durable failure at home.  Occasionally the iron gets its own back by spraying my strides with rusty water, and if I fail to spot the blemish, off I trot to work with it in full view.  Other than that, I'm pristine.  That's what age does to one.  Shocking really.