Birkenstock blues

The viciously well-dressed novelist Donna Tartt once said,

There is the dandy, or there is Virginia Woolf who was famous for going about in rags, practically. Very nice clothes are not incompatible with the writer’s profession, in a way that they are for a painter or a dancer.

I had occasion to remember this recently as I contemplated my ancient trainers and fake Levis before I attended a book party at the Reform Club. I have no idea what the right garb is for networking, now that I spend much of my day alone, dribbling into my keyboard. I do occasionally dress up for my own amusement, but it’s often quite hard to explain why you’re wearing velvet hotpants at 11 am, as I did the other day, if one of your housemates happens to pop home. (I was delighted that the hotpants still fit – I last wore them in public twelve years ago but I can‘t really carry them off these days).

And many days of my writing life do indeed feel like a grand waste of a decent outfit: even when someone handsome comes to read the electricity meter, it’s hard to escape the feeling that this wasn’t the life Isabel Marant dreamed of for her diffusion line. In my hot youth, I quite often got spectacularly dolled up on a Saturday night just to watch Casualty at home. Now that my outfits cost serious money, however, it feels as though they deserve some kind of audience. Somehow, not even I am narcissistic enough to indulge in leopard print and lipgloss just for my own benefit. It might have made Carrie Bradshaw happy but typing in La Perla and Manolos didn’t do much for her prose, did it?

For writing, I may dress like a Dalston schoolgirl (hoop earrings, jeans and white trainers) but even I know that something more is required for impressing potential employers. I know what to wear for real parties: something low-cut and a glazed expression. I have loads of slut-wear, far more than any of my better-looking friends, which tells its own story but I know this won’t cut it at book launches. For the Reform Club, I contemplated asking a friend to bankroll an ankle-length Laura Ashley frock as this seemed to be what was required. I considered not going at all. Finally, I solicited the advice of a trusted friend who uttered soothingly “If you’re a writer though, they’ll expect you to turn up looking slightly eccentric. Anything just south of Isabella Blow will be just perfect.”

She’d said pretty much the same thing last year when I’d gone to Vogue House for a meeting, and she had been right. On that occasion, I’d done my prep. Helpfully, the latest edition of the magazine had featured a full page colour shot of the editor I was due to meet in her favourite outfit: monochrome Prada. In panicked response, I’d bought a fuschia pink cloche hat (it was the only Sonia Rykiel item I could afford in the Liberty sale) before discarding it and settling for a Jigsaw twinset and maddeningly expensive jeans. It worked just fine but I began yearning for something a little more de trop as I watched Sloanes in furs and artfully laddered tights strut around Hanover Square.

Anyway, waiting for the sartorial muse to strike, I sulked so long and hard before the Reform Club party that I had to get ready in a hurry and cut a gash into my leg whilst shaving it. I threw together the least offensive items from my wardrobe (Jigsaw skirt, Gap T Shirt and Birkenstocks) and prayed that my leg would stop bleeding. I contemplated buying some dove-grey fishnets in Boots on the way but settled for arriving late, rain-sodden and apprehensive. Carmen Calil was there, looking magnificent in Missoni but I just stuck out amidst all the braying Tories and girls in sweater dresses and I regretted the Birkenstocks. I looked wrong, and couldn’t wait to go home so I drank too much and swore copiously. I don’t think I can blame my ill-advised footwear but I flirted with all the wrong people and developed a speech impediment before fleeing into the night. Still, at least I didn’t fall over.