Thursday 9 August 2007

30 Days and Counting...

I'm sorry, mea culpa, all that... not a moment to gather my thoughts!

It's been hectic, but thankfully Bumbalina's been here to carry the day! I've just waved her off, departing to dear old Blighty, still dressed for 35 degrees and 90% humidity. It's just so easy to get used to it. She may regret that when she touches down at Heathrow on a temperate summer evening.

I recall a visiting American colleague who when asked of his first impressions of Brits on their home soil explained 'it's not that you're eccentric, it's that you dress for the date not the weather'. It's a habit that's hard to break. We create wardrobes of outfits that meet particular requirements: office formal, office laid-back, smart casual, middle-aged student, but when we migrate to a different environment none of it's appropriate.

In some respects I find the outfit became a uniform that we build a new persona around. I always hated 'dress down Fridays', but not because it brought laissez-faire Saturday afternoon attitudes into the office. I despised it because it meant that I couldn't strip off the stresses and the issues of the desk when I got home, and pile them in the dirty laundry basket alongside my whiffy socks.

So Singapore makes me different. It's impossible to wear a suit into the office without coming to the conclusion that a litre of water an hour is insufficient to make good the waterlogged flood plain around your torso. Every taxi ride means pulling out your shirt tails to make good the condensation on your specs when you climb from the Alaskan chill of the back seat to the tropical punch of the street.

So out the window goes the Aquascutum classical wear, and in comes California chinos and open-necked shirts. Out goes the crisp, starched formality of daily dry cleaning, and in comes crumpled creases around my midriff. As I waft to the 18th storey of my next meeting I reflect in the mirror that I look a shadow of my former professionalism. Now I look like a cliche of colonial jounalism, although not (I hope) with saggy cheeks of chronic alcoholism.

So I need to get laid-back. If I can't hide the beads of perspiration around my hairline, then I must make use of them, and so I do.

Welcome then, floppy Huguenot. Let us celebrate the opportunity to swing by the office with two buttons undone. If not quite naked to the navel, then at least I have opportunity to prove that despite rumours to the contrary, I do not wear a medallion.