Even a butterly has spots

Yesterday, for some odd reason, I was feeling particularly rebellious about work. While for most people rebellion might mean an extra late lie-in in the morning and maybe skip the first meeting of the day, for me rebellion takes a self-deprecatory format.

So I decided to dress uber-sloppy to work, baggy jeans, trainers, sweatshirt, the works. I figured the peops out there wouldn't mind too much, and besides it gives their HR bod the "warm & fuzzy" aura that everyone seems to think HR bods should have. It's amazing how casualness in clothes encourages casualness in behaviour. Before I knew it I'd developed a dawdling swagger as I made my way to the coffee machine, and barely just caught myself from adopting a leisurely drawl to match.

A lengthy lunch, some warm sunshine, a catch-up chat with Seagull - in general it was shaping out to be a pretty pleasant day - when suddenly a quick glance at my calendar (and why hadn't I done that before, pray tell?!) revealed I had to spend the afternoon at a client site nearby. Sloppy jeans and trainers to a client site are an absolutely no-no - even I with my questionnable standards couldn't allow myself that one.

So quickly rushed home, huffing and puffing through the subway, almost tearing my hair out when the train came 15 seconds later than I'd hoped. Quickly changed into garb that was suitably professional, and dashed back out to work. Made it just in time to grab the ol' laptop and rush over to the client site.

Jumped right into the first meeting, a picture of pure panache. Caught a brief glance at myself in the reflective glass walls, and did a once-over of the smart cream jacket, the subtle black top and the plaid wool trousers. Gazed quickly down at my feet encased in smart leather shoes, where only moments before there had been old and dirty trainers, and felt a sense of secret elation. What a picture of perfection compared to this morning's Sloppy Jane. I crossed one leg over the other gracefully, in a moment of pure elegance and poise. As I did this, the cuff of my trouser leg got raised slightly to reveal my ankle.

And I froze in horror. There, glaringly obvious, was the one thing I'd forgotten to change. There, staring everyone in the face, was a shockingly bright purple striped sock.