05 November 2015

Colours

by John Watson

Newspapers are like junk shops. It is amongst the rubbish that you find a jewel and there it was this morning. Right alongside an article revealing  that sexual desire still matters for over-60s (surely a glance though gossip columns inhabited by cougars and dirty old men makes that pretty obvious) there was a report on a survey carried out by Case Station, eminent suppliers of mobile phone cases and now, apparently, diversifying into opinion polling.  It seems that the survey dealt with the effect which more colourful clothing had on the career of the wearer, and the results were electric. One in five 18-34 year olds credit a promotion to bright or cheerful clothing. The same proportion of their seniors believe that they have received a pay rise for the same reason. A quarter of workers believe that their fashionable clothes have landed them a job.

I must say that this explains a lot of things. Pocket handkerchiefs, for example. I had always wondered why men of a certain sort put elaborately arranged coloured silk handkerchiefs in their breast pocket. Perhaps it was to show that they could afford expensive handkerchiefs which never went near to their noses. Perhaps it was to cover up an ink stain caused by putting a biro in the same pocket without putting the lid on. Perhaps it was to distract you from the avaricious leer which they were unable to keep from their faces when discussing salary, bond sales or bonuses.  None of these answers is particularly attractive so I have always avoided doing business with men of this type on principle. Now it appears that I have been unfair. They were merely concerned to add that dash of colour which is essential to the successful businessman.

Worse still, I have done something of the same myself. Years ago I was given “my colours” as a Christmas present. That involved going to see a consultant, a woman who threw various coloured scarves over my shoulder to work out whether I was “summer”, “autumn”, “winter” or “spring”, these being the four types of complexion for colour purposes. As I was “winter” she suggested various shades of blue, green and red and that I should wear a silver watch rather than a gold one. The odd thing about it was that she was completely right. Wearing “winter” colours I looked positive, confident and healthy. Put on autumn garb and my complexion assumed a sallow hue, worthy of a malignant clerk in a Victorian novel.

Equipped with a little booklet of suitable colours, I went down to Jermyn Street and spent a happy hour in the sales. The shirts I bought were much brighter than those I would have bought previously and, if I had left it at that, I am sure that I would have received the promotion and pay rises suggested by the Case Station study. Unfortunately, however, I was so impressed by my new insight that I became a self-appointed colour ambassador.

“Good morning,” I would say to a colleague as I got into the lift.

“Good morning,” he or she would reply. At that stage it would strike me that the colours they were wearing were the wrong ones and, concerned that this would reflect on the organisation as a whole, I would start to explain it to them.

“You see, you are autumn,” I said to a senior lady who ranked rather above me in the organisation. It didn’t go well, especially when I added, “but it’s alright, silver can look very nice.”

The words “I think of you as summer” to the postboy sent him backing against the wall.

Ok, I’d got the message now. Leave attempts to proscribe dress for other people to religious fanatics; it would be better to focus on myself. Well then, shirts being fixed, what was left? Socks? A quick look in the colour booklet. Dark green perhaps. Shoes? A blue suede which I had to source at a theatrical outfitter. “Doing impressions are we, Sir?” A tie? Well, a fetching silver was certainly in winter territory.

That only left the suit itself. I had always been told that for an office worker this should be dark grey or dark blue, but that was old hat now. I looked at my colour chart to see what I had missed out and the answer was dark red. It is surprisingly hard to buy a dark red suit in Savile Row so I would have to make do with a red and cream check. Then, clutching my bags, I set off home. How I would stun them in the office next morning!

Early out of bed. On with the kit and a quick walk to the tube where I became aware that people were looking at me in a covert sort of way. Well, no surprise really. They were probably feeling ashamed of their drab clothes and wondering how much it would cost to brighten themselves up too. I smiled to give them confidence but they still seemed reluctant to catch my eye.  They just needed brighter clothes. Still, I resisted the urge to give them a little advice. There were just too many of them to get round. A couple of lads shouted something. I couldn’t quite hear so I just gave them a wave.  Funny how the younger generation are less inhibited in expressing their admiration for taste than their elders.

It was after I had left the tube that it happened. I was passing the Gaiety theatre and a little man came up to me.

“Thank goodness, you are here,” he said.

“Me? Why? I don’t work here.”

He laughed. “Very good, very good,” he said.  “Well, if you’re not here for the rehearsal, why are you dressed like a clown?”

Rude little man. I pushed on past but then, just to be sure, I checked my colour booklet and my eyes fell on the rubric on the back of the cover page.

“These are the colours you can wear,” it said, but then it added the words, “but not all at the same time!”

I went home and put on a dark suit and a white shirt.