Day one of my writing at home lark, and I’ve already sorted a ‘uniform.’
See, it’s all too tempting when you work from home to wake up, scuff your way to your computer (that is, if it’s winter and like me you’re wearing slippers, otherwise, in summer, you’ll be padding your way to the computer, bare foot) and get to work without getting out of your jim-jams. Very tempting indeed, especially given I’ve recently got myself two really cool pairs of jim-jams that I wore the death out of while overseas. Some of you may have seen the Instagram pic of me wearing said pj’s while walking the streets of London. It’s not necessarily something I’m proud of.
I’ve decided, quite firmly, that I didn’t want to be that sitting-at-home-in-her-pj’s type of person. Yes, I’m working from home, yes, it doesn’t matter what the fuck I look like. Thing is, in my opinion, it’s a very slippery slope. I have to start as I intend to go on, so to speak. So I want to treat this as a proper working day, without the feckless customers and annoying questions, of course.
The number one requirement, I decided, was that I had to wear a bra. There’s something about bra-wearing that shows you mean business. If I was swinging low and fancy free, it’d show that I wasn’t serious. That I didn’t care. Would I go to the office without a bra? No. Would I leave the house without a bra? No, no, no. So bra it is, then.
Of course, I am at home, so it’s not as if I’m going to get all suited and booted just to sit in the spare room, surrounded by cat fur and all the junk that doesn’t fit in the rest of the house. And, you know, I want to be comfortable. So the simplest way to combat something which, let’s face it, isn’t a huge problem in the scheme of things, but give me a break it’s my first day being an unemployed writer, I came up with a uniform for myself.
A recent purchase, in London, at H&M; quite the bargain. I bought two pairs as they looked super comfy but didn’t try them on as there was a massive line-up at the changing rooms and given I was only supposed to be nipping out for a coffee, I decided to take the chance. Turns out, I look awful in them. I thought they were the answer for bigger girls like me. In fact, had seen girls around my size wearing them and pulling it off. Thought, yes, that could be the answer to my fat arse; just exaggerate it! For some reason the result on me isn’t the same. I look huge, in other words. So it was quickly decided that harlem pants would be a at-home item, only.
I’ve chosen then for comfort. With the stretchy waist they’re quite like track pants, but I figured that tracky-dacks were a step too close to jim-jams, so decided against them. Harlem pants means I have the comfort while feeling like I’ve made a bit of an effort. And with no one around I can pull them right up under my boobs so I don’t have to deal with the annoying sway of fabric around my groin.
In truth, there is no other option. All of my t-shirts are black. They are arranged, of course. Into basic black and fancy black, even if they are the exact same t-shirt. I guess it depends on how many times it’s been washed and how faded it is.
Love Bonds. What a great Australian brand. Oh wait, they’re not Australian any more, are they? Like everything, I think they’re now being made in China. Doesn’t matter, they’re still great. And you can buy Bonds at the local supermarket. I’m a big fan of the zipped hoodie; it’s comfortable, practical and better yet, washes well. I’ve owned dozens over the years. Perfect for my at-home ensemble.
Well. I do need to be comfortable, right? There’s nothing quite like slipping your feet into your uggs, particularly after a hard day at the office. When we were traipsing around London I would have given anything for my uggs; they certainly would have soothed my blistered feet.
Uggs, for the majority of Australians, have always been slippers. At home foot wear. Yes, we’re likely to chuck them on for an emergency dash to the supermarket or petrol station, but they were never meant to be going-out shoes.
Although, apparently, they are.
While in Oxford I was speaking to an old friend of Mr Thomas’ who loves her uggs and claims to wear them everywhere. ‘No, no, no,’ I told her, ‘Ugg’s are slippers. You don’t wear them out.’ ‘Ah, for a hundred and fifty quid I’d wear them to the opera,’ she replied. You what? A hundred and fifty quid? Oh, that’s right. ugg’s are now branded, aren’t that? Along came Ugg Australia, who marketed our Aussie slippers to the world, put an exorbitant price tag on them, and then sued anyone else making ugg boots for using the word ‘ugg.’ Which is ridiculous. That’s like Nike saying other shoe companies can’t use the term ‘trainers’ or Havaianas saying you can’t use the term flip-flops (or ‘thongs’ if you’re an Aussie. I understand this term has a completely different meaning in other parts of the world. The inlaws were aghast when I told them how I’d lost my thong during a torrential downpour as the water carried it down the street. They couldn’t understand why I’d have my ‘thong’ out in public.) The term ‘ugg’ has always been used in Australia to describe a sheepskin boot. So to lay claim on the term is ridiculous, and is why I will never buy an Ugg Australia pair of uggs. Why spend hundreds of dollars on something I can get for fifty down at the local market?
And so my at-home uniform is complete. A part of me feels I’m just procrastinating with this, choosing what to wear while at home, when what I really should be doing is writing. Shit, yeah, I should really get on to that…