Blot On The Landscape

Uh-oh.

I have just boarded the evening flight to Milan and am very patiently waiting for the elegant Italian lady blocking the aisle to retrieve her BlackBerry, Prada leather notebook, MontBlanc fountain pen and Gucci make-up bag out of her Louis Vuitton travel case before placing it in the overhead locker.

Upon registering this walking who's who of exhibitionist branding, my casual observational glance plants a worried frown on my brow and sweeps past her, scanning the other occupants of the entire cabin in a matter of seconds. As my poor uneducated senses are instantly and repeatedly battered by an earthy kaleidoscope of olive, brown and beige fabric, opulently fragrant perfumes and bedazzling jewellry, I take one look at myself and realise the severity of my plight.

I stand out.

Converse shoes - CHECK
Dirty blue jeans with frayed ends - CHECK
Grey zip-up fleece cardigan from Primark (£7) - CHECK

Instead of the image of a suave young entrepreneur confidently dashing across Europe for another business meeting that I was hoping to convey, I have instead managed to pull off a remarkably accurate impression of one of the first detainees from Guantanamo Bay returning home after sixteen months in an underground cell without any food, drink or, crucially, clothing allowance.

Yes, I may fancy my tongue to be sharper than a really sharp cocktail stick, and my linguistic ability is lauded by many, but when it comes to sartorial elegance, I clearly have all the class and style of a colour-blind clown with an obsession for sequins. As I sit down, deep in my shame, I allow a sepia-tinted glaze to mist over my eyes as I recall the haute couture simplicity of my heavy metal years. This season's de rigueur colour? Why, it's black again, hurrah! But those days are gone, long gone.

In the meantime, I take a 50 Euro note out of my wallet and slip it inside my passport at the photo page. This will surely be my only hope of avoiding deportation upon landing.