18 May 2015
Freelance writing is all well and good (and I still do it) but anyone in the Arts will tell you how nigh-on impossible it is to make an actual living that way. Sad, but true. However, whilst Proper Job means security, it also brings a Dilemma I’ve not faced since the last time I had one, almost a decade ago…
Since then, I’ve written for whomever will pay: articles, features, marketing materials, website copy – and of course my weekly column here. But whatever work I do, it’s freelance, meaning my daily commute is from bed to desk. Work-clothes are jeans and a t-shirt; and that’s if I’m feeling particularly smart. Frequently I spend my days in pyjamas and very often I’m known to write from under my duvet wearing only my glasses. I have no office, no dress code, no need to match killer heels and handbags and no worries about whether my bra shows through my shirt. In fact, I have no worries about my bra.
Make no mistake: this is a BLISSFUL state in which to be. It means that, essentially, no one cares what I look like. My wardrobe is full of quirky items I love, alongside the staples of jeans and tops. I can spend a day being a gypsy, a hippy or a 1920s flapper. No one bats an eyelid. Trouble is, Proper Job means trips to the City and meetings with grown-ups. I’m given to understand that you can’t do that in a fez and smoking jacket.
To start with, I hooked out the most sensible things I own, teaming my 1950s chiffon skirt with a cropped leather jacket and praying that it somehow approximated a smart suit. Alas, no. I merely succeeded in looking like a half-dressed biker in a nightie. Not really the intended effect.
So, I forced my sorry self through the doors of a shop that sells dull clothes for real adults. Wandering aimlessly along the rows of depressed navy blue and grey, I hoped against hope that someone had recently invented city wear that was a little, I dunno, fun?
As I sobbed amongst the pussy-bows, a sweet-faced shop assistant approached to offer help. “I need grown-ups clothes that I just don’t want!” I wailed. He had the good grace to look sympathetic. A while later I left; poorer and suitably attired, bemoaning the end of my freedom. It was not a happy moment.
Over the months I’ve settled with my suit (I won’t own more than one) and now consider it a sort of costume. When I put it on, I become Professional Adult. Apparently I more than pass and this is, perhaps, the beauty of clothes. They allow us to be someone else, until we return back to the safety of our own four walls, hang our alter ego in the wardrobe, and turn back to normal.
In my case, this is Slightly Grubby Bohemian Bird that no one would take seriously in an office. Who are you when your costume comes off?
