The day I started my new job in the square mile I found myself getting excited, as I pushed and shoved my way with a smile onto the ridiculously packed 8.20am city bound tube. I was so used to being located in the west end or abroad that I felt like a fashionable modern day Indiana Jones with a cuter hat about to go on a city adventure.So starting as I meant to go on I first made sure that my Starbucks hazel nut wet latte extra hot and I got on the carriage full of the most cutest suited male travelers. So it was on that rainy Monday morning among a full train of unsmiling tired travelers that a smiley Fashionista and her coffee comfortably found herself under armpit one- a tall Armani clad cutie and armpit two- a rather dashing fellow who seemed unnaturally attached to his crackberry aka blackberry.
Five stops later I arrived at Liverpool Street, and like a well-trained pug I found myself automatically following the grey and black suit brigade onwards and outwards. With my oyster card in hand and at the ready, and wearing my new DVF wrap around, Choo shoes and newly whitened teeth, I felt like I had finally joined the true 9-5 crowd, I was now one of them. Now I could without hesitation reply “I work in the city” and automatically be awarded with a respectful nod or slight raise of their merlot which is something I never seem to get from city workers whenever I chirp with pride “I work in fashion”. Their usual response is the wrinkling of the nose, followed closely by a cleared throat then after a minute of uncomfortable silence comes the words “Oh did it start as a hobby”.
Going up the escalators at the bustling Liverpool street station I was covered in goose bumps and I knew the cause. It was because I was looking forward to city bankers galore, power lunches in restaurants that boast the Donald Trumps of the world, grabbing my free CITY AM paper so I feel just as important as the next person, adopting the fast pace I am too busy and important to talk to you walk, and hopefully be the bright spark of fashion strutting among the city female workers. I want to be their Moses and lead them to the fashion promise land, because if what I saw is anything to go by I should at least tell them that “that shade of grey is so last season darling”.
Five stops later I arrived at Liverpool Street, and like a well-trained pug I found myself automatically following the grey and black suit brigade onwards and outwards. With my oyster card in hand and at the ready, and wearing my new DVF wrap around, Choo shoes and newly whitened teeth, I felt like I had finally joined the true 9-5 crowd, I was now one of them. Now I could without hesitation reply “I work in the city” and automatically be awarded with a respectful nod or slight raise of their merlot which is something I never seem to get from city workers whenever I chirp with pride “I work in fashion”. Their usual response is the wrinkling of the nose, followed closely by a cleared throat then after a minute of uncomfortable silence comes the words “Oh did it start as a hobby”.
Going up the escalators at the bustling Liverpool street station I was covered in goose bumps and I knew the cause. It was because I was looking forward to city bankers galore, power lunches in restaurants that boast the Donald Trumps of the world, grabbing my free CITY AM paper so I feel just as important as the next person, adopting the fast pace I am too busy and important to talk to you walk, and hopefully be the bright spark of fashion strutting among the city female workers. I want to be their Moses and lead them to the fashion promise land, because if what I saw is anything to go by I should at least tell them that “that shade of grey is so last season darling”.
Gros Bisous
Champagnista Girl
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