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Wearing the pants

Where have all the pants gone? And I mean the type of pants that start at your waist and flow down to your ankle, not the denim kind that cling with seams holding on for dear life. No I don’t mean those skinny legging type pants. But real pants. Man pants. One’s you wear with a matching blazer,  that swoosh between your ankles and catch the gaze of passers by.


Lately I’ve liked wearing the pants. Not relationship wise, but wardrobe wise. With much of my style icons rocking a pant-suit, I made it my mission, however painful, to go out and find that perfect pair of black waisted pants for my new corporate gig. Turns out, Londoners don’t really wear them. This isn’t really a suit city unless you work in hedge funds. Despite the billowing styles that Pattie Boyd rocked in the sixties, London is now sadly a city of skinny jeans. Much like the rest of the world.

I persevered though and managed to find a lone pair of black waisted trousers in Zara. The last pair left. And they fit perfectly. What a coo! I bought them without hesitation of course, only to be left disappointed when I put them on for my first day at work, the zipper broke. Devastated. I love them so much I plan on getting the zipper fixed. But still, the hunt for the perfect pair of pants continues. Ones like what Annie Hall La-de-daa’d in and Carrie and Miranda wore to work a pay phone. There are pay phones in London still – I’ll send you a postcard from there when I’ve found the ones. La de da!

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