F*** you I will do what you tell me

I got up at 8am this morning and as predicted I wasnt throwing back the sheets to with quite so much gusto as Monday. A week is a long time in journalism.

Working in TV, you can wear WHATEVER you want. Like, turn up to work in bermuda shorts and trashed converse and a mesh vest and you'll get promoted. This was one of the most appealing things about the career path. For someone who abhors shaving as much as I, a lax grooming policy is essential.

Not so in Adelaide. Im in the middle of the corporate district in one of the slickest offices in town. While the fashions might not be experimental, they are certainly always nice. And safe.

I only own 5 shirts. And a single pair of suit pants. 'Slacks.' Most of my jackets have chewing gum in the elbows from leaning against the bar. Im hoping I can find a 24 hour dry cleaner on the weekend otherwise I'm set to wallow in stickyness.

So it's 8.05am by now, and Im grubbing the sleep from my eyes, staring at the crisp rainbow pile of t-shirts I've lovingly accrued over the years. Normally they're my uniform. I fingered the top one lightly... 'Maybe I can just see if I can get away with wearing this today...' I thought, reaching for a felt cardigan to go over the top. 'No one will even notice.'





I arrived at work by 8.55-ish. Whistling a small tune I dived into my swivel chair and switched on my computer. 'Hows everything?' I asked the online team, who work in a huddled module of facing cubicles. A question with particular pertinence. It doent mean: 'how did you sleep?', it means: 'Any high school massacres yet?'.

'Did you know you're meeting the editor today?' asked my boss, barely glancing from his computer screen.
'Errrrr...' I said.
'Have you got a shirt and tie in that bag?'
'Errrrr...'
He looked at his watch. 'You have half an hour. I'd prefer you'd be half an hour late than make a bad impression.'

Sheepishly I picked up my scarf and iPod and security pass and shuffled back to the elevator, out for a duck.

Take two:





I tore back towards work, 9.25am. Lace ups pounding the pavement, headphones in my ears. I was embarassed and annoyed but I knew I'd made the wrong call. 'Dress for who you want to be,' is the old corporate adage. Never get caught with yoghurt on your pants and a fraying tie, cos you never know where the day will take you.

iPod on shuffle, this song flicked on, and as I walked down Waymouth St, there was no one, but no one standing in my way.