A high-powered slicked-back pony-tailed bastard power-lunching through life like an Armani-clad bullet-train

I bought a suit the other day. If you've read the other posts, you'll know where I got it from. Normally, I'd proudly bellow about its origins, price tag and relative sturdiness, but in this case I'm overcome with shame.

There's so much psychic baggage associated with wearing a suit, and the price of the thing is just the start.

Yesterday, I went out in my suit to an interview. Afterwards, I strolled around central London for a bit. And I noticed something. Suddenly the other suit-guys, the presumed City traders, were looking at me. Sizing me up. Who's this guy? Do I know this guy? Doesn't he manage the Peterson account? Is that a BHS suit? I'd left the realm of lowly faux-hipster and, for a thrilling half-hour, I was a suit-guy.

I've always wanted to be a suit-wearing yuppie, even though the dodgy ethics of the whole thing clash head-on with my own half-arsed socialist values. A high-powered slicked-back pony-tailed bastard power-lunching through life like an Armani-clad bullet-train, helping to water the ticking time-bomb planted by Regean's market deregulation, and then pissing off scot-free to run for Prime Minister while pulling "Who, me?" faces as the economy burns. This secret desire likely started when I saw American Pyscho, and instead of nodding wisely at the 80s-materialism-taken-to-extremes motif (probably), I went and downloaded some Phil Collins and tracked down Wall Street. So despite being in London instead of New York, and being unemployed instead of having any kind of income whatsoever, I entered the world of the City trader.

It's a fast-paced world, for sure. We suit guys like to force ourselves onto the tube regardless of whether or not there's any physical room left on the train. We also like to run screaming towards the train from the other end of the station as the doors slowly shut, and then almost lose half our face forcing them apart. It's either that, or wait 3 minutes for the next one. It's no co-incidence that the 'Mind The Gap' signs portray a tie-wearing suit-dude tumbling to his death.

Sometimes we like to get together in a big group and collectively blank a Big Issue vendor. Bootstraps, buddy! Other times we like to stare at female office workers until it becomes not just creepy but really rather scary. When caught out, we widen our eyes and menacingly chew (cocaine-flavoured?) gum at them in slack-jawed defiance.

We've also become accustomed to berating fast-food workers. One particular gent entered a closet-sized Subway and demanded to know why there was nowhere to wash his hands. This is discrimination, he said. The soap's good enough for the staff, but not for us. "Are you nervous? Are you scared?" he asked, as he advanced on the manager. I stood agape at this profoundly ridiculous man, and then at the woman behind him, in a "Can you believe this guy?" fashion, until I realised she was his partner and trying her best to turn invisible. How his hands came to be so caked in filth, he didn't say, but in the end he ordered a sandwich and ate the thing, muck-encrusted hands and all. Presumably he picked it up with the napkins. 

Sadly, I completely blew my cover by being unable to stop myself taking photos of famous landmarks, and then posing for photos in front of famous landmarks, and then running around giggling and shouting the theme song from City Guys. I also passed on an overstuffed train, bought a Big Issue, forgot to creep anyone out, and successfully ate at a Subway restaurant without ruining my partner's day.

12 months of winter

I've gotten used to winter. It's become the norm. My natural setting. Bundling up in my coat before heading out, sloshing through half-melted snow, watching bright red blood streak across white grass as the wolves vanish back into the fog, etc etc. 

This is partially due to the power of central heating -- I don't think I've ever had a warmer, balmier winter. Combine the genius of the wall-mounted radiator with double-glazed windows and you've got the kind of temperatures normally associated with tropical islands. Sat around barefoot in a T-shirt, eating ice-cream; I'm surprised they're not growing hideous child-sized insects in the homes over here.

Compare this to my winter experience in NZ: even in my parent's house there was the mad dash down the arctic tundra of the hallway, that unheated space between the lounge and the bedrooms, so cold that it somehow smelt faintly of a freezer full of meat. And then there were the flats -- sitting up writing essays by the heater, clad in three to four layers, two pairs of socks, shoes, and a hood, with my hands clasped around a mug of scalding black coffee. And still freezing. 

Which is partially why I'm always baffled by the "So, how're you finding the winter over here, then?" question. I understand people over here think of NZ as a tropical island nation, but I still haven't been as cold here, outside in the snow, with my shoes soaked through, as I've been in one of the shithole flats I endured back in Hamilton. Zero insulation and a fan heater aren't a winning combo when it comes to keeping warm -- but it has prepared me for what has essentially been 12 months of winter. 

My last day of summer was in February, 2012. I left NZ at the very start of spring, and only had to deal with a few days of hot weather before I plunged myself into the howling winds of the UK's autumn. 

It's got to the point where the onset of summer is actually worrying me. What happens in summer, again? The clocks go back, as they did today, and suddenly the idiots are out in the 7pm daylight, on their way to drinks and barbecues, shouting and hollering at each other in the supermarket. In winter, it was just one rugged-up duvet-man after the next -- and now I have to see people. Half-naked people, in fact -- if my memory of NZ's summer serves. Which it might not. It has been over a year, after all. 

I mean, what do I wear? Sunglasses? Shorts? What about my coat? How will I cope without a coat? Where will I put my wallet and keys?  What do I wear on my feet? Do people wear jandals here? Do I even want to wear jandals? Will I have to spend day after day cooling off in the bathtub, soundtracked by the screams of pedestrians sinking into the melting footpaths outside?

Judging by the recent, snow-capped weather, no. And long may it continue.