Had to take a typing test today at the temp agency. Apparently I type a hundred words per minute, which was fast enough to render speechless the temp agency woman. I don’t know what an average typing speed is, so one-hundred-words-per-minute doesn’t really mean anything to me, but it sounded good, so I, when she announced this, I threw up my hands and cheered, which I think might have erased all earlier semblances of professionalism.

The earlier semblance of professionalism was dressed in a striped button-down and a black skirt. The geniuses over at Veronika Maine, they have made out of a black skirt an architectural statement conveying Efficiency and Trustworthiness. I assure you it is Dry Clean Only.

But that—give or take a suit, and a couple of shirts with buttons—is about it, professionally speaking, if we are speaking about my wardrobe. It was with some panic that I realised today I don’t have enough officewear to last me a week at a nine-to-five. My wardrobe is one half I’m-a-grad-student-hanging-out-at-the-library, one half I’m-a-flower, I’m-a-party-thrower, and-yes-I-can-catch-the-bus-in-these-heels. That, my mathematical fiends, leaves no halves I-really-like-to-photocopy-and-may-I-collate-too?.

Meanwhile, a quick look-see in the shops revealed one thing uglier than the next, sensible separates, horrible, horrible. Dear god, don’t tell me I have to buy a white button-down shirt.

The rain after my interview at the temp agency meant that I had to skip across the street to Liberty for shelter; Liberty, where all is LUSH and GORGEOUS and COMPLETELY INAPPROPRIATE for the office, and where they have a WHOLE ROOM OF CHOCOLATE. The Carnaby Street store on a rainy weekday afternoon is a living toyhouse for grown-up girls: Edwardian coinpurses and art deco bedside clocks downstairs, while secret staircases lead to Marc Jacobs coats in orange and green and blue.