Neon Tweed

Neon tweed. There are two words you don't hear together very often.  I've just bought a skirt that describes itself as exactly that, which is why I bought it. Any item of clothing with that sassy an identity deserves an airing. Truth is I was on the hunt for a conservative suit. Something in , say, taupe. Skirt, jacket - nice white shirt, maybe some pearls, American Tan tights, sensible court shoes courtesy of some shoe manufacturer that puts extra padding in the insole. I have started a new job, you see, in a work environment I am not yet wholly familiar with but which looked terribly conservative from the outside so I thought I had better at least make an optical effort to fit in. But of course, face to face with said taupe two piece somewhere bland on the faceless, generic high street, I couldn't bring myself to take it off the hanger, never mind try it on. It was a good moment, an empowering moment. Though I knew this about myself - I may be tenuous on occasion, apologetic, a bit too ready to hide in my comfort zone - my public Me is enthusiastic, energetic, upbeat.  These qualities demand colour. The fact that I had signed up to spend the next three years of my career in a building with pillars, tiles, arty ceilings and entrances with personal names, did not mean I needed to blend in with its distempered walls to become worthy to wear my pass.  My eye wandered past the taupe two piece to a flash of colour. I head straight for it. It's tweed. Neon tweed. Brilliant. Five minutes later I'm out the door with the skirt in a bag. I haven't even tried it on but I know it is going to look great. It's going to make its debut with a black turtleneck, a metal rope of small multicoloured beads, patent knee high black boots, really big hair.  I pick clothes the way I bake. Start with the accepted recipe. Two minutes in, I've changed the plain flour for nutty spelt, the raisins for chunks of chocolate. I've whipped egg whites into the batter to give it height, and my buttercream has been whisked and whisked and whisked till it's so light it's practically taken off. It gets decorated with a riot of M and Ms, colours arranged in organised chaos. Neon tweed. Exuberant cakes. I don't know what my work legacy will be in three years. I do know those corridors will be the perfect backdrop for my neon tweed to sing.