Eurostar chic

I travel on the Eurostar every six weeks or so. I usually go overnight at most, sometimes there and back in a day. This presents a huge dilemma because I grew up in the generation of package holidays, when our parents, themselves children in the war, with privations they vowed they would do everything to ensure their children would not ever have to experience, found its articulation in The Summer Holiday, which had to involve planes, or at least very long train rides, and beaches, so you could get a mahogany tan to show off at school in the Autumn term. Travelling for holidays is really easy. You throw on something comfortable which will also hide the peanut butter stain you will invariably get on it when some kid throws a sandwich at you in the aisles. Trust me. This happens frequently. When you travel business, you have to combine comfort with smart, confident workwear that will not crumple, looks feminine, will not suck in your stomach so much that you bloat at 30000 feet, and will retain its professionalism at the end of the day as well as at the beginning. Peanut butter sandwich experiences? Not even a starter. And if you travel on the Eurostar there is the added dilemma, if there weren't enough pressure already, to dress in French chic. How do Francophone women DO this? The night before a Eurostar trip I tip all my clothes on to my bed and search frantically for the perfect Parisian chic combo, which of course I don't own. What I want is a strippy strappy dress that comes in around an inch or two above the knee, that I can throw an insouciantly smart jacket over, and team nonchalantly with flats or sandals and still look like I work for a posh design company. I don't, I work for the government, but I have been in denial about the classic civil servant attire from day one. Visiting my department? I'll be the belisha beacon in hot pink seated by the window. But I don't have any strippy strappy dresses and my jackets are not insouciant, they are stiff, structured and undeniably British. I look for navy blue trousers, a dark blue jacket, and a red t shirt. Yup that hits the comfort button, but it also looks one step removed from a French flag - red lippy and I'm going to look like a Parisian cheerleader. Finally I settle for black trousers, white jersey tuxedo jacket with black lined lapels, and a red t shirt. Striking, comfortable, wrinkle proof, I just have to ensure I put the white jacket in the overhead shelf, far from peanut butter sandwich throwing kids. But at St Pancras I can't quite stop myself from riffling wistfully through the racks of Eurotrash dresses on sale in the various boutiques. One day, I promise myself. One day, I will alight from the Eurostar at Brussels Gare du Midi, looking like Keira Knightley on a Chanel no 5 shoot. One day.