It's another year and Wimbledon has come around again.  My interest in sports in general is unsurprisingly minimal but for some reason tennis has me hooked in a way that is quite inexplicable seeing as I don't play it particularly well either, yet any old match will have me glued to the screen for hours on end.  This year though, a more sensible explanation for my tennis fixation, would be that the style stakes at Wimbledon have been ramped up, so much so that newspapers are commenting on what players are wearing as much as how they are faring in the competition.  Actually, that's not the real explanation either but it is quite hilarious to see people making a fuss about *gasp* a pair of shorts on a woman.  Tutus and white trenches on court, rumours of kilts and Federer's preppy vs. Nadal's pirate look; all the sort of 'style' drivel that are cluttering up the back pages of newspapers and also Vogue.com. 

I hate cliches about the 'haves' looking down at the 'have-nots', the 'labelled' laughing at the 'non-labels', 'the rich' snobbing it up about the 'the poor'.  Most of the time, it seems to me that it's just an oversensitivity on the part of all latter parties.  Life is rarely like Pretty Women and the posh shop assistants aren't jeering at you in this tough economic climate when they're mainly grateful to you just for frequenting their store.  When I stumble upon a cliche, it pisses the hell out of me for the reason that I've always hated pigeon-holing people.  So today, when I got on the tube, sat right down and was stressfully drinking my Americano, I noticed two ladies sitting across from me giving me the oddest looks.  Did I have unrubbed moisteriser on my face?  Was my hair sticking up?  My outfit was a little tame/rushed so nothing to look at there.  I then realised they were staring at my bag, an old and faded Vivienne Westwood number.

When people send me emails and say that my blog is one of the best fashion blogs out there, I have to immediately dismiss them not out of false modesty but because.... well, my fashion blogging heights can't possibly compare with what has happened to Bryanboy.  Let's rewind and recount...

In lieu of my muddling thoughts about my new job, (muddling in a good way...) I thought I'd retouch on some issues that though has spawned from my switching career fields into fashion, probably applies in a more universal way.So I have broken free of the work dress code. No more confusions over the ambiguities of 'smart casual'.  No need to dress 'appropriately' for clients (again, the limits of 'propriety' - what are they?).  No need to have that emergency suit (yes, i have one and no, I'm not wearing it here...) for VIP meetings.  It was a pretty relaxed dress code as it was and I pushed the boundaries as much as possible but now, it's a proper free country.  I could come in wearing a literal potato sack and ballet pumps if I wanted to.  How about my giant scrunchie? Or a hat or two or three....?

Bleary eyed, haven't taken two sips of my coffee yet and I'm sitting down at my desk.  Not many people are in yet.  Marie Helvin, elegant and subtle, in white trousers and a crisp blue shirt walks in and declares 'I have no idea where i am...'.  I feel the same way sometimes, Marie.  She's being shot in Rankin studios as we speak.