I don’t know about you, but I’m beginning to lose the plot on dress codes. For our recent trip to the City, I dusted off the trusty pin-stripe – something of an ageless classic, I’ve always thought, and a bit of a bargain in a Jermyn Street sale during the depths of the 1991/92 recession.
Anyway, as we all met in reception at the fund managers, I noticed our dear leader, together with the finance director, appeared decidedly under-dressed. In fact, in the latter’s case, he looked for all the world like a walking advertisement for the activity section of men’s department at John Lewis (bitchy I know, but I’ve learned a lot from the lady wife).
However, I soon realised why, for in strode our hosts in chinos, unbuttoned shirts and brogues… this was not the City I had expected, and I could not have looked any more out of place had I turned up in school uniform, wearing a cap.
As you know, my presentation on human capital reporting was, at best, politely received, and so by the time I got home there was plenty to get off my chest.
“Well I don’t know what you’re complaining about dear,” came the unsympathetic reply from Mrs H. “Us girls have had to cope with this for years. Every morning, I have to decide on skirt or trousers, heels or flat, bare arms or covered, cleavage in or cleavage out… and all you can do is complain that I’m not ready yet.”
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