i work in an office. with men. three men. just three men and myself. these men wholeheartedly subscribe to the ‘black t-shirts –  black jeans uniform,’ circa Guns ‘N Roses roadie 1982. just missing the bandana. the odd time one arrives in with a cheerful t-shirt or an accidentally charming jumper, but these occasions are rare.  so i am faced with a daily inquisition on my clothing choices. will my shoe-boots not force my calf muscles to contract? why don’t i have a crown to accompany my silver, puff-sleeved shirt? any heels at all result in the menfolk quaking in their boots, wondering why i must insist on towering over them. the harem pants unleashed an mc hammer theme tune for an entire week. my fur stole was referred to as a cat.  the nautical, frilled sleeved top was labelled ‘a bit Dallas for the office’.  a cocktail ring was deemed impractical for typing (indeed it was, but beauty is pain my friend).

the chasm is wide and deep, but i am confident i can break them down. i know for a fact one of them could definitely work the cravat look.