Commuting to work by public transport is one of those things that can be almost a pleasure if you live in a nice, leafy, affluent area. Catching the tram to the city from Balwyn, Richmond or South Yarra could often be a quite relaxing experience for me. And walking to work in summer was green, sunny and healthy. How we laughed.
The Scottish commuter experience, however, can often entail the greyest, longest, most miserable journeys ever. This can vary slightly depending on the season of course, but even when the sun is shining those confounding work 'fashions' still come out. And these 'fashions' excite me to the core. Sorry, I meant to use the word 'amuse' instead.
On a weekday morning the theme largely and strangely seems to be fleecy jumpers for both the girls and boys. I honestly get a start when someone well dressed gets onto my bus. And I'm not talking the usual (god, so usual) outfit of 'smart' bootcut suit pants worn with heeled ankle boots, teamed with a v-necked Marks & Spencer top (yawning yet?) and all nicely finished off with hair that has been GHD'd to within an inch of its natural life. It's 'well-groomed' in a 'day out at Chaddie' or a 'night out at Crown' sort of way. Le Suburban Bogue, Scottish style.
And let's not forget the handbag-plus-sandwich-bag combo, paired carefully so that the handbag covers whatever unfashionable store name the plastic bag may bear. Marks & Spencer, Top Shop or Next is acceptable. Asda, Tesco or Morrison's is not (they're for the male workies who are too macho to even hold the bag by the handles, just grip the bag roughly just above the bit where you can see the outline of a bottle of Irn Bru and a packet of fags). Dunnes or New Look bags are just the right side of okay but Zara or Cruise are plain showy. A small patent Macy's or Bloomingdales number (specially purchased by Aunty Joan in the Big Apple) may look great in the shiny NYC shop but over here just looks try-hard. Besides, every second female commuter in her beige mac and cheap fake-fur scarf has one.
But let's get back to the matter of workwear. There's this woman who gets the same bus as me each and every morning and each and every morning she wears the same thing. Each and every single day, I kid you not. Well, not exactly. When the clocks go back for winter she wears black trousers, a black fur-lined hooded parka and black shoes. So she wears this uniform every day, except with a uniform you rotate 2 or 3 of each garment, not wear the same garment which still has creases in it from the day before, and I know this because I'm a sad bastard and I check. So she wears this outfit until the weekend the clocks go forward again, so that on the very Monday after (oh-ha-ha, like clockwork) she is in her 'summer' outfit of denim jacket, white hooded jumper, black trousers (okay, so this she doesn't change) and white Adidas trainers.
She has done this for the last two years. She will be wearing it at the bus stop on Monday. If I could get away with taking a picture of her with my mobile I would. But then that would be almost as sad as writing a blog about it. Er.
The Scottish commuter experience, however, can often entail the greyest, longest, most miserable journeys ever. This can vary slightly depending on the season of course, but even when the sun is shining those confounding work 'fashions' still come out. And these 'fashions' excite me to the core. Sorry, I meant to use the word 'amuse' instead.
On a weekday morning the theme largely and strangely seems to be fleecy jumpers for both the girls and boys. I honestly get a start when someone well dressed gets onto my bus. And I'm not talking the usual (god, so usual) outfit of 'smart' bootcut suit pants worn with heeled ankle boots, teamed with a v-necked Marks & Spencer top (yawning yet?) and all nicely finished off with hair that has been GHD'd to within an inch of its natural life. It's 'well-groomed' in a 'day out at Chaddie' or a 'night out at Crown' sort of way. Le Suburban Bogue, Scottish style.
And let's not forget the handbag-plus-sandwich-bag combo, paired carefully so that the handbag covers whatever unfashionable store name the plastic bag may bear. Marks & Spencer, Top Shop or Next is acceptable. Asda, Tesco or Morrison's is not (they're for the male workies who are too macho to even hold the bag by the handles, just grip the bag roughly just above the bit where you can see the outline of a bottle of Irn Bru and a packet of fags). Dunnes or New Look bags are just the right side of okay but Zara or Cruise are plain showy. A small patent Macy's or Bloomingdales number (specially purchased by Aunty Joan in the Big Apple) may look great in the shiny NYC shop but over here just looks try-hard. Besides, every second female commuter in her beige mac and cheap fake-fur scarf has one.
But let's get back to the matter of workwear. There's this woman who gets the same bus as me each and every morning and each and every morning she wears the same thing. Each and every single day, I kid you not. Well, not exactly. When the clocks go back for winter she wears black trousers, a black fur-lined hooded parka and black shoes. So she wears this uniform every day, except with a uniform you rotate 2 or 3 of each garment, not wear the same garment which still has creases in it from the day before, and I know this because I'm a sad bastard and I check. So she wears this outfit until the weekend the clocks go forward again, so that on the very Monday after (oh-ha-ha, like clockwork) she is in her 'summer' outfit of denim jacket, white hooded jumper, black trousers (okay, so this she doesn't change) and white Adidas trainers.
She has done this for the last two years. She will be wearing it at the bus stop on Monday. If I could get away with taking a picture of her with my mobile I would. But then that would be almost as sad as writing a blog about it. Er.
1 comment:
Sometimes I get tired of having to workshop an outfit every day. So tired. I think that's why I live in PJs on the weekend. Perhaps I could just start wearing a Pizza Hut uniform, or a 7-11 apron to work, complete with name badge. Who the hell are we anyway?
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