Last Friday, at dinner with my friends Al and Reuben, the topic of ‘worst years’ came up. I cited 2016 as mine, but on reflection FY 2015/16 was a more accurate timeframe.
Reuben said: “Oh yeah, is that when you wore the same blue shirt every day?”
It was. I was working at Redacted & Redacted and not having a great time. My solace was that, every day for 40 minutes before work started, I would sit in the Pret near Warren Street tube and write. The thinking was that, before too long, I’d bang out a novel, win The Booker Prize (or one of the other big ones) and then - having finally achieved tremendous success - would at last be able to quit my job and treat myself to some happiness.
I would never have said that I was depressed at the time, but there were a few signs. I became increasingly negative, Jess pointed out that I involuntarily sighed constantly and - maybe the most obvious - I started wearing the exact same outfit every single day. My uniform was black jeans, a grey t-shirt and a light blue Uniqlo Oxford shirt over the top. My jackets and shoes slightly varied seasonally, but the uniform stayed the same.
Does this sound cool? I have no recollection of why, but it felt cool at the time. I probably thought that I was above caring about my appearance. That the only self expression I needed was in the pages of my unfinished manuscript. That I was a trailblazer, like Steve Jobs or Barack Obama or Anna Wintour. That it was every one else - with their colours and patterns and enthusiasm-in-meetings - who were actually the boring ones.
But I wasn’t a trailblazer. Steve Jobs, Barack Obama and Anna Wintour embodied their uniforms to enhance who they already were. I used my uniform to try and disappear.
It after that job ended that I realised how miserable I was. I took a break from the torturous, circular writing schedule and started working somewhere I felt understood. But it was only a year or so after, when I started shedding those stupid blue Uniqlo shirts that I begun to feel I was being a person on purpose again.
It’s not like I dress crazy now or anything. Most of the time I wear blue shirts anyway. But now each blue shirt is unique in its own right and - when I put it on - is filled with a whole person.
I found these three very short stories I wrote in the Pret that financial year:
Lasagne
“I could’ve made this at home.” He said.
But his home didn’t have an Italian man in a bow tie.
His home didn’t have a condom machine in the gents.
His home was a shit place for my birthday dinner.
Dan
On Friday night, Dan went out and took drugs.
On Sunday night, he finally went home to bed.
On Monday morning, he got up, put on his school uniform and sat down to breakfast with his mum and dad.
Nobody suspected a thing, except that it was school holidays — and Dan was 22.
Turbulent change.
The red car got sold and you cried.
Mum didn't cry. She liked the new blue car.
In fairness she was seven times your age.
She'd been through this before.