Closet Crisis

"You are not leaving the house dressed like that!"

How many of us can say we have heard this from our mother's lips at least once in our lives? I'm guessing most, if not all of us. However, what do you do when you no longer live under the confines of the parental roof and have to make important decisions on your own - like what to wear?



Throughout my working life I have come up against wardrobe restrictions - from the strictly 'black and white' protocol of a Joseph concession in Selfridges to the on-trend capsule wardrobe of working in publishing. Having struggled with my own fashion identity for years, finally settling into my 1980s-throwback ensembles of bodycon skirts, loud prints and leggings I have now arrived at a crossroads where I must disassociate my personal self from my work self.

Representing your company to not only the outside world but the seniority within, we are encumbered with the burdensome duty of maintaining a certain look for the majority of our lives.

It's difficult re-training ourselves to pick up garments in stores that we are not naturally drawn to. But now shopping must become a strategised plan as we navigate rails and online sites searching carefully for tops and skirts and dresses and shoes that will enable us to project the right impression.

Reeling from my latest 'wake-up call' to the fact that some of my style choices have not been well-received by my peers in the workplace, I realise that this situation reeks of the stand-offs I used to have with my mother when I wanted to wear something she didn't approve of. And it's forcing me to finally appreciate the method to her censorship of my fashion faux pas.

Ever my harshest critic, my mother has always bestowed upon me her most truthful opinions, advice and criticism. Not the type to shower unwarranted compliments I am by now used to her blunt honesty. Besides the fact that when she does pay me a compliment I know she means it. But without her acting as my stylistic compass, I'm afraid I am lost in a sea of bad wardrobe decisions that insist on coming back to haunt me time and time again.

So, if I am to follow the age-old adage that 'Mother knows best', I must gather the feedback that has been tactfully and, at times, unceremoniously thrust my way and use it to my advantage. Thankfully the fashion wheel of fortune has come back to rest on 1950s femininity, a la TV adland sensation Mad Men so finding modest, office-appropriate garb shouldn't be too tricky. I have already alighted upon a lovely knee-length black skirt for under £30 from River Island (www.riverisland.com) and a pair of black patent heels from Marks & Sparks for just £15 (www.marksandspencer.com). All I need now is to team it with a pretty blouse or shirt and my new look is complete!

I am sure that I will be faced by further closet crises in my future, either at work or for some other occasion where my personal taste doesn't quite fit the coutoure-criteria; I guess the best any of us can do is to imagine what our mothers might say before we step out of the house.

To drink or not to drink

I don't drink.

This is a statement I have repeated on many an occasion, be it at a works do, a birthday party or just a regular night out with friends. And 99% of the time I am met with the same puzzled look of bewilderment followed up by the assumption that there must be some great reason as to why this is: allergies, religious reasons, pregnancy... But the simple truth is that I just don't like it very much.



My mother was never strict about my exposure to alcohol, and from a young age allowed me to try (in moderation of course) the adult tastes she felt I should experience. Pre-teen years I was allowed a sip of Kiddush wine as part of the traditional Jewish occasions, from Friday night dinner to Rosh Hashanah (the new year celebrations) and as I matured I moved on to white wine spritzers, which were drunk in controlled environments - usually accompanied by dinner and my grandparents company. It is my belief that due to this freedom and lack of taboo surrounding alcohol, once I reached 'clubbing age', unlike my friends who were gasping for hangovers and experimental opportunities so long denied to them, I was not entranced by the A word.

I attended my high school prom at age 17 (the youngest in my year) and while my cohorts set up camp around the tiny bar, I enjoyed the evening dancing the night away. However, when I reached university, this hysteria reached a whole new level as friends claimed it impossible to endure a night out without the aid of copious amounts of alcohol. There followed an almost competitive push throughout student-ville as to who was nursing the worst hangover the morning after and what embarrassing antics they had participated in while enjoying their drunken stupor.

I admit, the few times I have made erroneous judgments on nights out and wished I could have blamed it on drunkenness, has not escaped me. However, I never felt the need to drink, I don't particularly enjoy the taste of most alcoholic drinks (though granted most don't - it is the affects they pursue over taste) and I really didn't want to part with my cash when I could be spending it on clothes and shoes.

Maybe it's because I am a bit of a control freak, maybe it's because I am mortally afraid of alcohol-fuelled ventures resulting in me lying on the floor flashing the entire population of central London on a Saturday night, maybe I've smelled too many wine and beer-breathed peers to risk subjecting myself to it, or maybe it's because on the few occasions I've drunk alcohol it's just run right through me...

I'm also one of those rare freaks who doesn't drink coffee. Yes, I know your mouths must be on the proverbial floor, but please do pick them up again. My reason - I don't like it. And that's the basic truth - if I don't like something, I won't do it. Why should I? Just because everyone else is doing it? To avoid the judgement I face at a variety of occasions (including meeting someone for the obligatory 'coffee' in Starbucks or Costa)?

Last night was my work summer party, a sophisticated affair at the Kensington Roof Gardens. Conversations preceding the event were primarily punctuated by intentions of consuming vast amounts of alcohol and what would ensue later in the night as a result... I am not a party pooper, and I don't ever try to draw attention to my tee-total status - I silently drink my orange juice or water (yes water) and enjoy the night as much as everyone else. And, on little or no sleep, often feel as terrible as my hungover colleagues the following morning.

Essentially, everyone is free to drink or not, without judgement. But perhaps it would be interesting to step back and ask ourselves, why?