(so in answer to your immediate question, no I’ve not had a good day)
I’m not a follower of fashion; nor am I one of those people that insists on there being definite ‘good’ and ‘bad’ looks – fashion is an art, and so is to be judged subjectively. At least most of the time.
There is one exception to this rule, one combination of clothes making up one’s outward appearance that is not just objectively unpleasant, but actively harmful against the laws of morality and culture. One set of clothes that has never looked anything other than diabolically painful on anyone, that has transcended from an outfit actual people wear to a catch-all term epitomising wardrobe malfunctions, a singular fashion faux pas to end all fashion faux pas.
And today I saw someone wearing this most heinous of outfits; a fool waiting for a train at Finsbury Park station, whose choice of attire had managed to ruin my otherwise fantastic birthday. He was wearing socks with sandals.
Not just any socks and sandals either! A pair of sleek, Nike sandals that probably cost 65 quid and have been featured in a TV advert alongside Lionel Messi for no discernible reason; a set of pristine white socks, that bore a striking resemblance to the white trim on the sandals, giving the awful impression that this attirical combination had not come about through some freak accident, but was planned. It was coordinated. It was intended. It was probably ordained by a god to ruin my day. And it did.
The wearer of this hideous ensemble even got on my train! He was following me, his path predetermined by some natural inclination to annoy me, to pester me, to remind me of his existence and that of his unfashionable footwear. He wasn’t even in the same carriage as me, but I remembered him throughout the journey, as he subjected me to some kind of horrific psychological trauma by staying far enough away that I wasn’t overcome with an urge to punch him in the face and remove the world of this problem, but close enough in my mind to prevent me forgetting about him and moving on with my life.
And he’s stayed with me. It’s four hours later and I’m still raving about him, unable to let go of his tragic artistic misstep. And I’ll probably never forget; I’ll be unable to look at a pair of sandals or even my own beloved white socks without triggering PTSD flashbacks of those few minutes at the platform, where my sanity was rocked to its very core, and my view of the world cracked into a thousand cascading pieces, warped, incomprehensible, and tumbling into the oblivion between the train and the platform.
Happy birthday indeed.