(All the posts from the Sydney trip are now online)

Read an article yesterday about new non-tuck school shirts to avoid the endless problems of students not tucking their shirts in. Seems to make sense, particularly in summer.

As far as I recall, during my school-uniformed years (years 9-12), while most didn’t, I did tuck my shirt in. But then, I was a geek. I also seem to recall I never wore shorts, which must have been bloody hot on the hottest days. What was I thinking? Some kind of phobia about displaying my knees in public?!

In year 12, there were special jumpers you could wear signifying your superior status over the other students. I think it was maroon instead of the usual green. Or was it green instead of the usual maroon? No, the former. With a special logo and VCE 1988 lettering. But a quirk in the school rules said you couldn’t wear the jumper without a jacket, unless you were wearing shorts. Some of us rebelled against that, keen to show off the status. And got told off for it. Seemed like a silly rule to me.

Though not as silly, I think, as the proposals from one SRC (School Representative Council) presidential candidate to introduce school cardigans. Cardigans?! We were teenagers, not retirees.

In an amusing conversation the other week:

25 is the new 18.

Cycling is the new golf.

Dunno if all this is really true, but I’m discovering for myself that brown is the new blue.

There was a stage in my life when I wouldn’t be seen dead wearing brown. The other day however I noted I was wearing blue jeans, a brown T-shirt, and an olivey-brown top and coat. (Olive? Brown? Somewhere in between? I don’t know; I’m a bit colour-blind.)

I reckon if my 20-year-old self saw me now, he’d probably snigger.

And vice versa, come to think of it.

In my neck of the woods, drycleaners seem to have a permanent “three for the price of two” deal going on. It’ll cost you about $7 to get one item cleaned, but about double that for two or three.

It means when I have an item that is in dire need of cleaning, I’ll pontificate procrastinate over whether or not I have two more that need cleaning too, just so I can get good value for money.

Once the item(s) come back, you have to get rid of the plastic and the flimsy metal coathanger. And of course find the label. If there is one. On the trousers I just got cleaned, I couldn’t find the label… so hopefully I wasn’t walking around all day with it stuck to my bum.

Holeproof brand socks aren’t really holeproof. They get holes just as much as any other brand of sock.

Over the last couple of weeks, I’ve done something of a purge of socks with holes in the toes. I had plenty, and I have a sneaking suspicion that many of them were Holeproof brand.

I didn’t even keep any as “emergency socks.” Sometimes you just have to be ruthless (and hope you have enough new ones to cope).

Damn it was cold this morning. Before leaving for work, I made sure to find my gloves and scarf for the walk to the station through the fog. (You remember the scarf, right?)

Off to the Bell Shakespeare’s Romeo & Juliet tonight. Not sure how I wangled seats in row AA, but looking forward to it.

PS. Saturday morning. R&J was great stuff. A few nice modern touches. Reminded me of my Shakespeare parodies, of course. Thoroughly recommended.

It used to be just construction workers that wore high-visibility tops. Now they adorn police on traffic duty, tram/train customer service people, cyclists, truck drivers, builders, couriers, and so on.

They do make a person more visible (spectacularly so at night), even if they do little else. Railway industry people wryly observe that some of the more foolish of their number think that a high-visibility jacket will magically prevent them from being hit by trains.

It might be a bit of an arms race like visibility from four-wheel drives. How visible will they be if everyone wears them? Not at all, in crowds, I suspect.

Sometimes I find Friday’s casual day a stress. I find normal weekdays easier — any idiot can look half-decent in an expensive suit.

(Have I told you about my suit? It’s really nice. It was pricey though. It’s so expensive that it doesn’t have a pocket for small change. The makers must have presumed it would be worn by kings and presidents, who never have to carry money.)

Last Friday

I thought I had it figured out: that right balance of casual dress without looking slobby. But this day last week, I had a meeting with people I didn’t know, which complicated things further. I thought something a little more formal was required.

I should have just grabbed my work gear but left the tie behind. Or done my usual Friday thing and worn my nice stripey (horizontal) top with jeans and sneakers.

But no. Out came the stripey (vertical) shirt (aka The Party Shirt). The cotton pants. Put them on. And plain black shoes.

I looked in the mirror. Hmmmmmm. Shoes not really working.

Let’s just throw in a looming deadline, too. The 8:06 and 8:17 express trains are ideal. They stop only three times before reaching the city. If I miss the 8:17, the next is the 8:31, stopping all stations, which reaches the city 21 minutes after the 8:17 does. So I was keen to save those 21 minutes, and get the 8:17, particularly since I knew I had to nip out of work for something else during the day.

I switched the black shoes to the (shudder) old brown shoes. Then, at 8:06 (the station is ten minutes’ walk away), I grabbed my Myer’s bag full of stuff (which is used to avoid having to carry a briefcase home on Friday nights) and headed out the door to catch the 8:17.

I waltzed off down the street. But something was troubling me. I looked down. Ooh. These trousers just weren’t working. They must have looked better on the rack. Maybe they should be worn with the Birkenstocks, lazing about the house or something. But not with Real Shoes.

In my mind I could hear Wallace, frantically calling: “It’s the wrong trousers! The wrong trousers! Stop them, Gromit!”

A U-turn back down the street, into the house. Found my black-blue jeans. On. Bolted out of the house. I glanced at the time. 8:11.

I sprinted down the road and just made the 8:17 (a minute or two late). Out of breath, sweating, but made it.

The train quickly spirited me to Parliament, as I read my newspaper and pondered if any of my neighbours had seen me depart the house twice in the space of five minutes, wearing different pants.

Off the train, I walked down Collins Street to work, rather self-consciously wondering how I was looking, in my jeans, old brown shoes and the Party Shirt sticking out. I’ve been told by She Who Knows that such a shirt must never, ever be tucked-in. The problem is the Party Shirt is kind of big and long and billowy. When I’m walking it looks a bit like a pregnant lady’s shirt. I’m probably better suited to a shorter, slimmer shirt.

I looked at my fellow CBD-dwellers, at least those who were male, between 20 and 50 and wearing casual clothes. He’s got cotton pants. They look okay. He’s got old brown shoes too. Oh dear, maybe not so good. Damn, look at him, he’s got sneakers. That could have worked. Oh, him — he looks fine. Sticking out slim shirt. Sneakers. Hey, he has a Myer bag with his stuff in it too!

Today

Today, I’ll try and do better.

(Edited to clarify this describes last week.)

Here are my shoes (well, most of them)…

I hate buying shoes. There are few activities I hate more. It might be because I’ve had a very hit-and-miss history when buying. Roughly in order of purchase:

MISS — ancient brown semi-casual shoes [1]. Subject to endless gags from lovely girlfriend (aka fashion consultant) and just about everybody else. Comfortable, if nothing else.

HIT — the Birkenstocks [2]. Nuff said.

MISS — very shiny Florsheim work shoes [3]. Look okay, but give me pains in my right foot every time I wear them. They say that everybody has one foot that’s bigger than the other, and for me it’s evidently my right. Despite the shop assistant convincing me they seemed to be the right size, they’re clearly too small, and even the ingenious plan of pottering around in them with a wet sock to stretch the leather inside provided only temporary relief. They’re size 9 ½, and I’m obviously a 10. They’re going in the charity bin shortly.

HIT — a pair of Vans brand sneakers [4] bought several years ago. Have lasted a while, though starting to look a bit ratty now. I still like ‘em. Kind of light grey coloured, with red laces.

MISS — Rockport shoes I bought in near-desperation the night before flying to Canberra. Casual black shoes? What was I thinking? General derision from my local fashion consultant (girlfriend) when I showed them to her, and on reflection, she was right. Alleged casual shoes shouldn’t look like that. Returned them to the shop the next day on the way to the airport.

HIT — Ecco sneakers [5]. Cool. Comfortable. By appointment to the Danish royal family apparently, though I haven’t spotted Princess Mary wearing any.

TBA — black Hush Puppies work shoes [6]. Bought last week to replace the shiny Florsheim shoes. Very comfortable on Saturday at the wedding. Noticeably less comfortable the other day at work, leaving nasty looking sores on the back of my ankles, but maybe I’m now at the stage of properly wearing them in. Perhaps I was wearing thicker socks on Saturday? Or perhaps the alcohol on the night caused me not to notice?

Hopefully my luck is improving.

Do you have some favourite or hated shoes? Leave a comment or link to a picture.