I had to walk through the city on Thursday in an effort to deliver a report to a legal firm, whose timetable had changed from having a day of sitting next week to the afternoon session yesterday. Lawyers aren't exactly known for their tact at the best of times and the tirade which my boss endured on the telephone was enough to make him spend the rest of the morning grumbling under his breath like the sounds of a 351 Cleveland V8 at idle. When the report was finally finished, he was as red as a beetroot and escaped for lunch; leaving me with the task of making like Ronnie Rocketpants across this festering wen of a city built around the harbour.
I must admit, that the afternoon itself was glorious; with both the harbour putting on a spectacle worthy of an exhibition in the National Gallery of Australia, and the weather being just warm enough for me not to have to wear a jacket. Instead I was wearing trousers, a white shirt, black waistcoat, black tie, my spectacles and my black cheescutter hat.
I arrived at the legal firm, wherein I was only met by an indifferent secretary on front of house duties that looked as though she would rather be anywhere else in the world and with monosyllabic grunts, which is the universal language of someone who's only there for the money. Of course it could very well be that people in legal firms just have a natural outlook on the world which is shaped by the fact that they have to look over their upturned noses of disapproval. When you're dealing with people with the letters QC and SC after their names and Sir before them, we mere plebeians can't be all that interesting any more.
I duly received the cheque for our services (because nobody's money stinks, even if it has been made as a result of charging for handling urine) and my walk back through the city was far nicer than it was on the way there. When I'd made my way past the cenotaph in Martin Place, someone called out and it became apparent that they wanted to speak to me. For what purpose I knew not, since this made no sense to me whatsoever, but I enertained their calling because as a social creature (albeit one that's incredibly faulty), even I know how to interact with my fellow humans because I am not an alien (despite all the indications otherwise).
These two ladies who were probably no more than about 25 years old, wanted to take photographs of me for the style section of the magazine that she worked for. That was the ruse at least, and so I let them take about two dozen photographs of me before I went on my way. One of them said that it was for something called "Drum Media" which looked kind of semi legitimate and I signed a release form agreeing to have my likeness published. I gave her my address at work in case these people ever decide to cut me a cheque. Apparently I had a "business goth" vibe about me.
I must be getting old or something because yet again I've wandered into something I don't understand. I haven't done anything differently to what I would usually do and my sense of style however insane it is, was more or less informed by a world which ceased to exist before I was even born. Nobody wears ties any more as far as I can tell, nobody wears waistcoats and cheesecutters and flat caps are a thing which hails from another country entirely.
I don't think that I look remotely "goth", let alone "business goth"; the only concession that I'm prepared to make is that black is the universal colour of understatement and is possibly goth adjacent, if that's a thing.
It did make me wonder for the rest of the afternoon as I bashed numbers into MYOB, as to what "business goth" is, if it is indeed a thing. I would hope to see unnecessary buckles, oversized boots, and maybe a black band t-shirt for a band that I've never heard of. Personally I would want a full length black coat, a stovepipe hat, and duel wielded claymores, which would be perfect for some really hostile business takeovers. If I can't have claymores because they're a hand and a half sword, can I at least have a sabre?
Of course then my mind wandered into full on action movie territory, with swashbuckling in the board rooms of the ASX 200, equally unnecessary fights between hordes of boards with crossbows; all set to the strains of Rhapsody In Blue. I mean clearly I have no idea what the heck "business goth" is; so I'm sure that the two photographers from the magazine have no idea either.