In the first week after I moved from New York to Britain, I was invited to a birthday party. The invitation didn’t specify any sartorial requirements, but it was in the private room of a trendy restaurant.
I’m always looking for an excuse to wear something fabulous bought on a whim, and this celebration seemed a great justification for the black ruffled Brock Collection dress I had splurged on.
Confident in my choice of the ankle-length dress and a pair of leopard-print mules, I strutted into Salon in Brixton – and met a sea of jeans and blazers, nary a high heel in sight.
OK, so some quick Google groundwork might have informed me that Brixton is not Belgravia. London’s postcodes all have their own dress code; just another of the unwritten social rules I’ve learned.
But here’s the thing: even if I had known that cocktail dresses and mules don’t fly in south London, I probably would have worn the same thing. Simply put, I’d much rather be over-dressed than under-dressed.
Why settle for less when the compliments keep coming? And on that night in particular, I didn’t even need to do a changeroo when the party headed to a private members’ club with strict rules on attire.
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