by Annabel Port
Maybe there are some other hybrids I could create. Like when they did the cross between the jean and the legging, the jegging. In these difficult financial times, I think people want more from clothes.
I have a brainwave. What about an item that from the front is a skirt but from the back, a pair of trousers? I start sketching what this might look like. I’m in a cafe.
A man walks past and says, “Nice drawing!”
“Thanks!” I say and go into great detail about what it actually is. He looks like he deeply regrets saying “nice drawing”. Especially when I really push him to say whether he’d consider wearing the skirt/trouser hybrid.
“In private, maybe,” is his answer.
This is real encouragement.
I think I’m going to go with this hybrid and call it the “Skousers”. Either that or the face thing. I’ll run up a prototype of both and let the people decide.
By a stroke of luck, I’ve had a bag of old clothes by my front door for the last year that I’ve been meaning to take to the charity shop but never got round to it.
If that’s painting a nice picture of the area by my front door, you’ve not yet added the months of unopened post and ignored takeaway leaflets, the shoes, the bag of scarves that needs to be sorted out and a knife that I once used to try and open the light fitting outside the front door. That’s the complete picture.
I rummage through the bag and find an old denim skirt. There are no trousers but there is a pair of black leggings that had gone very saggy around the bottom area. They will have to do.
I start with the skirt. This only needs to be seen from the front so I just cut most of the back off. Then I get the leggings and cut the entire front of the legs out but leave a small bit around the ankle to stop them flapping. I’m a bit short on time so I don’t sew the two together but use safety pins.
The Skousers are ready.
Next, the face mask. I’ve got some floral material that I fashion into a face covering, with holes cut for the mouth and eyes. And as I’ve got some spare denim left over from the Skousers, I give it a nice denim trim. Now it’s not just functional, it’s also stylish. I decide to call it the “Fask”.
I take my revolutionary new clothes into work. The receptionist has concerns I look like a more colourful member of the Ku Klux Klan. The head of marketing, Clare, walks past and says I look creepy.
This is not the reaction I was hoping for. But are they fashion experts? Are they the right people to advise me before I pitch my creation at London Fashion Week?
There are lots of boutique shops around Carnaby Street, near our offices. I’ll take my creations there to get some feedback and advice. Maybe there are some slight alterations it would be best to make.
I go into a men’s clothes shop. The clothes seem quite edgy, so this is perfect.
“Hi. I’ve got some great designs I’d like to show you,” I say to the two men at the till. They both look trendy. I suspect the fact that I’m using the word “trendy” means that I’m not trendy.
I put the mask on first, the Fask.
“Are you going to rob us?” one says, but in a jokey way so I don’t think they’re pressing the panic button under the counter.
“Oh, does it look a bit robber-y?” I say.
“Are you serious?” they ask. They ask that question a lot over the next few minutes, despite me telling them I am serious. I feel like John McEnroe’s umpire.
I move on to the Skousers now. They are very polite about them and smiling a lot.
“Do you think you’d stock these designs?” I ask.
“Oh, you’d have to ask head office.”
I can’t get much more out of them so I go to a ladies’ boutique with a French name. There’s just one lady in there. I show her the Fask.
“Oh no,” she says.
“What?”
“It’s like a gimp mask.”
I get the Skousers out. She’s a bit politer about them and says that clubbers might like them.
“Do you want to try them on?” I ask.
“No!” she says, really abruptly.
But that’s okay. I’ve got all the feedback I need for my pitch now.
I’ve never done a pitch before. Luckily I’ve seen The Apprentice many times so I know all about them. How it’s best not to do a collage or to take your shoes off and dance. I also know that you write it in a taxi on the way to the pitch. I can’t afford a taxi so I do it on the Tube instead.
London Fashion Week is at Somerset House. The first problem is that you need tickets to even get into the courtyard. I had been hoping to stroll around and hobnob with Vivienne Westwood, etc. Obviously, I don’t have a ticket. But that’s okay as I can stand just outside.
I spot two trendy-looking girls. They look very “with it”, as my grandma would say.
“Hi! Can I pitch my design to you?” I ask.
They are very friendly and agree straight away. They’re both fashion photographers so they’re in the heart of the fashion world. They might take the Skousers and the Fask to their next shoot and demand Kate Moss wears them on the cover of Vogue.
It’s time for my pitch. I let them know it’s starting, then clear my throat and say, “Cold today, isn’t it?”
They agree.
“What’s the coldest part of you today?”
“Hands,” they both say while rubbing them together.
“No,” I say. “Anything else?”
They look a bit stumped. Or it might’ve been confusion. I find myself touching my own face as a hint.
“Face?” they ask.
“Yes!” I say. They look relieved. “I think it’s time we reclaimed the face covering from the baddies. So I present to you the Fask.”
I put it on.
One of the girls says, “Bad.” I think she meant it in the Michael Jackson good way.
The other girl says, “I’ve done a shoot with lace face masks.” We are totally on the same page creatively.
“It’s great for cold face days, bad face days or days you don’t want to be recognised if you’re a celebrity or out with your mistress or male lover. It’s a delightful floral pattern with a contrasting edgy denim trim.”
I finish with the slogan. Yes, it has a slogan. “The Fask. Face up to it, it’s great.”
I wait for maybe some applause or cheering. They look at me, smiling.
“Do you like it?” I ask.
While they don’t exactly say yes, I get the impression they do. They even mention Alexander McQueen at one point.
Then they start waving to a friend and saying they have to go. I’ll be honest, I don’t see anyone waving back at them. But that’s okay, as I’ve still got my Skousers to pitch. It strikes me for the first time that I probably shouldn’t be carrying my designs in a M&S carrier bag. It’s too late now though.
I spot someone else. Someone else looking “with it”. She’s also happy to hear my pitch. Time to break out the Skousers.
“Every day we have to make decisions. Toast or cereal, bus or Tube, having children or a terrifyingly lonely old age? I have something to simplify life and reduce the number of decisions. Let me present to you the Skousers. For those days when you can’t decide between skirt or trousers.”
I pull them out of the M&S carrier bag.
“Also perfect for the days when you can be bothered to shave the front of your legs but can’t face doing the back. The Skousers: the best of both worlds.”
I give her a broad smile to indicate I’ve finished.
“Well, they are good for when you can’t decide between trousers and skirt,” she says.
“Would you be interested in taking any units?”
“I work at a knitwear company,” she says.
“You could make woolly ones,” I suggest weakly.
She smiles politely and then wishes me luck.
I can’t help noticing now that I’m the only person pitching designs outside London Fashion Week. It doesn’t seem to be the thi
ng. Still, there’s always a first time. And a last time.
I’ve also noticed that some filming has just started. I’m not sure what channel. There’s a yellow foam bit on the mic and something I can’t read. It appears to be the kind of TV channel that also doesn’t have access into London Fashion Week. These are my kind of people. And they present my one last chance.
I put my Fask on and as soon as the camera is rolling and the lady reporter is talking I’m right in the background as close as I can get.
Surely, this means my design is going to be on television. Unless they started recording again when I went away. While I’ve not yet sold my designs, I have created a real buzz around the Skousers and the Fask. They could be the next must-have items. For the hot new creepy, robber-like, colourful Ku Klux Klan, gimp look.
21
The Challenge:
To campaign for a four-day working week
Imagine if every week had a bank holiday. If every weekend was three days long. For me, this is way better than imagining there’s no heaven or no countries (no offence, John Lennon). And who wouldn’t want a four-day working week? Really? Who? Well maybe not Thomas Edison and Margaret Thatcher. But they’re both dead. And we’ve got the light bulb now.
In 1930, the economist John Maynard Keynes predicted that by the twenty-first century we’d be working a fifteen-hour week. The average working week in the UK is now thirty-six hours. Meaning we’re all just embarrassing ourselves and failing in the eyes of this eminent man.
I begin this challenge with gusto. I can really make a difference. Make life better.
My first thoughts are of the three-day week in the seventies. Three days is a bit excessive, even for me, but I never understood why it was thought to be such a bad thing. Yes, there was hardly any electricity because of the miners’ strike, but candlelight is very flattering. Then I looked into it a bit more and read about how TV had to finish at 10.30 p.m. and I finally understand the true horror.
Although we shouldn’t overlook the positive things, like how, during the winter, there was such a severe fuel shortage and it was so cold that women were allowed to turn up to their chilly workplaces wearing trousers instead of skirts. Ahh, the seventies. Different times.
There are other precedents for a shorter working week. In 2013, the President of Gambia brought in a four-day working week to allow Gambians to devote more time to prayers, social activities and agriculture.
I’m not sure about the praying and agriculture bit. I’m also not entirely sure about this president, who used to be a faith healer, once said he was going to rule for a billion years, claims to have invented a herbal cure for HIV that works in three days and insists on his title being His Excellency Sheikh Professor Doctor President, despite having left school at sixteen with five O levels.
I edit him out of my proposal to the UK government. Instead, I focus on how it creates more jobs, means fewer carbon emissions and how a study somewhere, at some time, found that 72% of people would rather work longer days, four days a week. 72%! It’s what we all want. And when I say “we”, I mean 72% of us. This is great, but maybe one statistic from a study that I can’t be bothered to check the credibility of is not enough.
What would be great, what could make all the difference, would be if I could get one of the biggest companies in Britain to say they’ll do a four-day week. Then the government would have to take it seriously.
I really study the top-ten biggest companies to see which one would be the most likely to convert to a shorter week. By which I mean I look at all their addresses to see which is closest to my work.
It is BP. The fifth biggest company in the UK with a turnover of £91 billion and employing over 10,000 people in this country. Surely all I need to do is go to their HQ.
Now, I know you can’t just show up and ask to speak to the CEO. If I’ve learned anything at all, it’s that you need names.
I do my research. I’m thinking someone in HR is probably my best bet. I find a name on the Internet. I’m just about to go when I remember I’m often asked for business cards in these kinds of circumstances and never have them.
I need a business card showing me to be the CEO of the Four-Day-Week Campaign. I’m wondering if I’ve got anyone else’s card in my purse that I could doctor. I have a look. Nothing. I’m clearly not the type of person who gets given business cards.
But what I do find in my purse is a Caffè Nero loyalty card. I was hoping one side would be blank to write the business stuff on. But they clearly didn’t think of this during the design process.
I’m undeterred. I find a receipt (from TGI Fridays) which I can attach to one side of the loyalty card and write on the back of.
There is the slight problem that I don’t have any glue or Sellotape, but luckily I have a hairgrip in my bag so I slide that on.
I design a nice logo for the corner. I’d describe it as a mess of the characters 4, D and W. I cast a critical eye over the mess and then add a smiley face in the corner. All I need to do now is write “Annabel Port, CEO, Four-Day-Week Campaign”, my email address and mobile number, and I’m ready to go.
I arrive at reception and tell the lady confidently who I’m here to see.
“You’re here to see Adriano?” Her tone leaves no doubt that this is definitely a question, not a confirming statement.
I’m wondering what’s weird about me seeing him. Me in my jeans and parka and messy hair at one of the biggest oil companies in the world.
I assure her I am. She takes my name and calls up. I wait to be asked all the usual questions, like: do you have an appointment? But they don’t come. She hangs up and says he’s coming down. She tells me to take a seat and gives me a visitor pass.
This is very unusual. I don’t even have to wait long. He arrives in just a few minutes. He’s very smart-looking and seems confused when he sees me. I start wishing I’d brushed my hair.
But he’s walking right towards me and it might look strange, me dragging a comb though my hair while shaking hands.
Instead, while his hand clasps mine, I say brightly, “Hi. I’m Annabel Port, the CEO of the Four-Day-Week Campaign. I’ll be liaising with the government regarding the changeover to a four-day working week.”
The government thing is not a lie. I do intend on talking to them tomorrow.
He looks really confused now.
“Sorry, who have you been talking to here about this?” he asks.
“You,” I say.
“Me?”
“Yes,” I say. Then pause. “Now.”
I get out my business card as I’m worried I’m losing him. He takes it. And lifts up the receipt to clearly show the Caffè Nero card.
“Oh, don’t look there,” I say quickly.
Then I try and distract him with more talk about the four-day week. I’m really babbling now and I’m very aware of that as I hear myself use the word “directive” and I don’t even really know what that means.
“Look,” he tells me, “we do have agile working here. But let me get you a business card and then you can email me with all this. I’ve got yours so I’ll keep this.”
He puts my card in his pocket and walks off to get his.
I’m panicking now. That Caffè Nero loyalty card is nearly full. I want it back. I’m two stamps away from a free coffee.
He’s gone ages. When he does come back, he hands me his card and tells me to email.
“Have you still got my card?” I ask.
“Yes,” he says patting his pocket.
“Can I have the underneath back?”
He’s unable to control an outburst of laughter. It’s an awkward moment but he does return it to me.
My only problem is that he keeps the hairgrip I used to attach the receipt to the card. Those are really cheap, though, so I take the hit, figuring I can claim it back from expenses when my four-day-week company really takes off.
And now that I’ve got really strong interest from one of the UK’s biggest employ
ers, I’m ready to tackle the government tomorrow.
I start the day full of optimism. I just need to present my overwhelming evidence to the government, which I’m imagining will have a quick look and then we’ll be all sorted for the week after next.
I’m guessing I need to approach Iain Duncan Smith as he’s the head of the Department for Work and Pensions. And the good news is he was heckled during a speech and called a ratbag in Edinburgh the day before, so is probably feeling a bit fragile, a bit needy, a bit eager to please right now. The timing couldn’t be more perfect.
I find the number and call up. The phone rings for ever. I’m holding on for about five minutes. And I suspect by the tone of voice of the woman who eventually answers that she had been just sitting there, waiting for me to give up.
I ask to speak to Iain Duncan Smith.
“What sort of enquiry is it?” she asks.
I explain I’m from the Four-Day-Week Campaign.
“And you are?”
“I’m Annabel, the CEO.”
“CEO of what?”
“The Four-Day-Week Campaign,” I say patiently.
I’m worried her mind is not fully on the job.
She tells me she’ll see if his office will take my call. I’m on hold now. The hold music is medieval but played on a very cheap synthesizer. It’s quite some noise.
Eventually the receptionist comes back and says everyone is in a meeting today. An all-day meeting. Involving everyone. I’m suspicious, but relax a little when she gives me the email address for Iain Duncan Smith.
He’s got quite a weird email address as it starts with “ministers@”. But maybe IDS was already taken.
I send him this:
Dear Iain Duncan Smith,
Firstly, I don’t think you’re a rat bag. In fact, I think you are a hamster bag. Looking all sweet, while endlessly running on a wheel, getting nowhere because of all the restrictions you face – money, staff shortages, maybe the idiocy of your superiors. You’re there, biting away at the bars of your cage, hoping for the freedom to fulfil all your desires, fat-cheeked and passionate.
