Hieronymous the Anonymous

Tailor made man

Image via Wikipedia

Did I ever tell the story about the time I tried to sign-up to eHarmony? I'm a bit of a test junkie and I was intrigued by the notion that they could personality match me to the right woman based on our test results. In actual fact I was - and remain - a bit of a sceptic, and was less interested in finding my mate than seeing what the tests said about me.

So one Saturday afternoon I sat down in front of my PC and for an hour studiously completed the exhaustive list of questions designed to illuminate just who H is. That's when it became odd.

Sure enough I got a bunch of reports back giving insights into different aspects of my personality. I can't remember what they said, but although I was a tad surprised in places I was generally in agreement with what they pronounced, for good and bad. Then I got anm email from eHarmony. Quite amazingly they pronounced they could register me with them as I did not fit into any one of their categories (or words to that effect).

I was flabbergasted. I'm the first, and occasionally the only person to think I'm pretty unique, but this was taking it too far. I didn't know whether to be insulted or flattered. Did it mean I didn't exist? Did it mean I was in my own category of one? How can it be that others have not recorded similar results as me?

I went off in a huff. That was it, eHarmony was shite.

Having established how distinctive my psychology is I can now make the same claim about my physical self.

For most of my adult life I've been possessed of a non-standard build. Not unique maybe, but not run of the mill either. For a lot of years buying a suit generally meant selecting a good sized jacket and matching it with a pair of trousers one size down (when they allowed it). Even then some additional adjusting was generally required.

I've always had big shoulders and chest. Even at my least fit they've been a good bit bigger than my waist. At my fittest the difference is pretty decent, but in recent times it has started to become quite silly.

I've had a problem for a while with business shirts. I like to wear the fitted shirts rather than the old fashioned boxy types. Mostly that's good except I've discovered they can be pretty tight in the forearms. My forearms are pretty big these days and now my biceps, always pretty handy, have swelled to the size of grapefruits. More than not my arms feel pretty tightly constrained.

It doesn't stop there. My recent personal training has made my chest 'prouder' if that makes sense. I fit in the shirt if it's the right size, but my chest stands out. More difficult in suits unfortunately.

I tried on a suit the other day and realised times have moved by me. I seem to have the choice between getting a suit jacket snug to the fit and which just buttons up (awkwardly), or a jacket that buttons up properly but is a bit boxy. Generally I take the fisrt option - I rarely button my jacket up anyway - but it's not entirely satisfactory.

I put the suit back in the rack and left the store, realising that the only real option for me these days is to go tailor made. That's what I am now, tailor made man. (That doesn't mean I'm in super shape - I'm not - I just have a particular build.) Now if only I could get that for my psychology too...

 

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Get over it

Image by Getty Images via @daylife

There's been a lot of talk lately - and controversy - about someone called Andrej Pejic. Andrej is a local boy from one of the tougher parts of town how has somehow transcended his background to become an international fashion model of some repute (modelling for Jean-Paul Gaultier in Paris no less). What is remarkable - and controversial - about Andrej is that he models as a woman.

As a male he is striking in a pale, androgynous way. As a women he is beautiful. Unsurprisingly the mere existence of a cross-dressing model has caused ructions in certain circles. It's hard for many to separate themselves from the black and white views of conventional culture. Is it a he? A she? What does it mean? For many it's a very unsavoury proof of the degeneration of society.

I take a different view, as do many others more enlightened. It's comforting to label things; once labelled much of the world slides easily into our personal taxonomy. Labels are just words though, loose definitions of what has come before. Male, female, boy, girl, these are the generic terms we've come to describe human life. It's not as simple as that though, as we know, even if many wish it were. A label is a word; people are individuals. It's individuality that is really important.

Society has come a long way in its general acceptance of what was once described as 'queer'. It's not universal and it never will be, but it is much more widespread than it was 20 years ago. Surprisingly the acceptance of someone like Pejic is much more contentious now than it was in the less enlightened days of the eighties when, nonetheless, the androgynous look embodied by the likes of Boy George, Marilyn, and many others were defining looks of the decade.

I grew up through that period and never cottoned on to the look, nor indeed the music - it was not my style. And in truth I probably looked down my nose a little at the likes of Boy George because his appearance and behaviour seemed beyond my comprehension - a sports loving rocker as I might have been described then.

I'm more mature now and live in a more mature, sophisticated and enlightened society. I'm the antithesis of the androgynous look - broad shouldered, muscular and masculine - but that doesn't prevent me from being sympathetic to Pejic and the others following in his wake - and indeed anyone who chooses a different path. You respect the individual, not judge the stereotype.

Pejic for his part appears to be an intelligent, resilient character aware of the controversy he creates, but seemingly above it. In all I have seen and read of him he seems to act with an amused and easy detachment, gracious and dignified. Does dressing up in women's clothes make him gay? Does it matter? Of course not (for all I know he's a raving pantsman). In fact in some small way it highlights the silliness and hypocrisy of much of society. Being gay is no big deal. The same people who watch a gay model parading a mens suit down the catwalk frown when a man parades instead in a dress. Being gay is no big deal if you conform. Being gay and dressing like a girl is for some going too far.

I applaud him. We have to get over these silly prejudices. Andrej Pejic is going his own way and all power to him.

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Me and Don Draper

Image by snacktime2007 via Flickr

I was catching up with my Mad Men watching last night laying on the couch when I figured that Don Draper and I have similar lifestyles. Sure we're 50 years apart in time and half a world in distance, and while we share some key attributes we have different personalities, but...some things never change.

Some of it is superficial, we both like a glass or two and despite the cultural differences then to now have a laissez fair attitude to much that is indulgent. Like him I have women going in and out of my life constantly. I often wonder in quiet moments where so and so got to, or remember a distant redhead I had forgotten, but those moments are few if only because - for good or bad - there's pretty much a revolving door.

I'd like to think that Don is a little more casual and offhand in romantic/sexual matters, but I often find myself surprised after the event how dispassionately, even ruthlessly, I have conducted myself. It's very much a need for him, as it is I think for me - searching for and being with women is a central part of who I am. I may settle on one eventually, and I hope I do, but I couldn't imagine a life without any.

In a way that relates to the next connection. Don Draper is arrogant and often brusque. There is a mystery at the centre of him, and despite his harsh ways something decent. He is strong enough to live by his own lights, without reference to the prevailing whims and cultural mores of society. He is a fascinating character.

I get called arrogant though I dispute it, and while I'm not brusque I can be very blunt. He's opinionated, as I can be, but he's also a throwback in the way of the times, when I am just the opposite. I believe in doing the right thing, though that is not always clear. I'll pay little heed to public opinion and will often find myself happily in opposition to it. I'm not always an easy man, though many think I'm charming. Despite my flaws I think I am a good man. There is more to me than surface appearances.

It's perhaps the last connection which resonated most loudly with me. We are both self-made men. In itself that lends a certain way of being to a man, a slightly different worldview I think. On top of that we are now both on top of our game. He has that easy surety of knowing all the answers are at his fingertips. It is arrogant, but it's also impressive.

I'm more affable I think, and while I know most of the answers are anywhere but to hand I apparently give that same easy impression. In part that comes from confidence: if I do not know then I'll find out. I'm done it before and so I'll do it again and there is nothing beyond me...

I've not made 'it' - nor has he - but knowing you have it in you, that you're striving toward it, gives you a certain sense of entitlement that is hard to deny and, sometimes, hard to disguise.

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A man's home theatre is his castle

I've resisted for a while, but last week embarked upon a spending splurge to replace my existing, very weary, home theatre set-up.

I must be one of the last people with a CRT TV. It's a very nice, top shelf TV that still provides crisp, clean pictures, but it's old technology now, about 6 years old and incompatible with the AV I want to get. Besides, it's an 80kg box, with a screen smaller than most of the flat screens on offer these days. Partnered with I have an old Denon DVD/receiver.

So, I've gone out and bought a 46inch Schaub Lorenz LCD TV, a Pioneer VSX-LX52 AV surround sound receiver, Tannoy Arena Lite Speakers, and an Oppo BDP-83 Blu Ray DVD player.That's a lovely combination of components, all carefully selected after due diligence, all pretty at or close to top of the line.

I hesitate to tally up what I spent, but I didn't pay full price for any of it. I always figure there are ways and means, and if you hunt around hard enough you'll always find it. The TV comes with a $300 rebate. I picked the receiver up for $600 below rrp. The speakers were about half price. The Oppo, hard to find in Oz, I found on Ebay for a hundred off the nrmal price. And end of the day I have as good a home-theatre set-up as you can just about get.

Now, if I only get the Enspire media server too...

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What it means to be a Melburnian

Melbourne has its own style, everyone knows it, even those who’d rather not admit to it. As a city we know we’ve got it good when it comes to food and fashion, bars, coffee, the arts, and not to mention sport. Though it’s organic roots sit in the diversity of lifestyles there is much in it that ultimately becomes self referential. We are known for something that we look to live up to. I've little doubt that there is no other citizen in Australia that has as much civic pride or sheer affection for their home town as a Melburnian does. We know we’re stylish, and so we strive to be stylish and ever more so.

In some sense that’s one of the things that sets Melbourne apart from many of the other Australian cities. Style not only matters, it is a distinct and central part of the cities consciousness and identity.

So what is Melbourne style? I was given cause to wonder this a few days ago on a visit to the CBD. I’d made a day of it managing my appointments and catching up with the odds and sods of my city life. About mid-afternoon I was on my way to have coffee with one of my ex-IT guys when I stopped at the pedestrian lights at Collins Street. In that mindless state you have while waiting for something to change from red to green I took in the guy standing beside me.

He was a stripling really, one of those pale and weedy types of no particular physical distinction. He had dark hair cut into a style Robert Smith might have looked upon with approval, reflective, no doubt, of his personality. It was different, but not objectionably so. What really took my attention was his attire.

It was a pleasant day of about 23 degrees. It wasn’t hot, but it certainly wasn’t cold. I was in shirt sleeves, but this guy was dressed all in Melbourne black with a woollen coat tightly buttoned and bound around his narrow body. He had oversized cans on his ears as he cruised through the city to his own particular soundtrack. My first thoughts were that he must be bloody hot. Then, as the lights changed and he raced ahead of me, I reflected that certain sacrifices are willingly made occasionally on the altar of fashion – discomfort is small cheese really.

I went my way and he went his, but I was left pondering. I wondered why I so rarely saw pale and weedy types in the summer. It’s true. You see plenty of hale and hearty types spreading out in beer gardens or sitting down to indulgent breakfasts or improving their tan in shorts and t out and about. The sun, for most, is the occasion to celebrate wherever you are in Australia, including Melbourne.

It’s in the summer that Melbourne style is at its dimmest, if only because it has the least scope. There are only so many ways you can pull on a pair of shorts, and flip flops are only thongs no matter how you dress them up. That might explain why the pale and weedy type is invisible in the sunny months. It’s my guess that they have pretty much the same relationship to the sun as Count Dracula does. I couldn’t imagine one in a pair of shorts, thongs and a pastel polo shirt. Summer is the season they hibernate, huddling inside their home, the blinds closed and watching the calendar keenly waiting for daylight savings to end.

It gets damn hot in Melbourne through the summer, but Melbourne really is a winter city. I wonder if that’s the European influence. The city itself, the style and a lot of the attitude is European, as are the passions and the intellectual discourse. I'm gilding the lily perhaps as there are no shortage of bogans either, but in general and in the CBD and inner suburbs that's the life. In winter the Melbourne look really comes to the fore, woollen coats, dark colours, long boots, layers...

I can remember a few years ago when I was living in Brisbane I returned to Melbourne for a conference. I befriended a guy from Adelaide and showed him around. He had a great time of it as we went to one obscurely located bar after another. That was Melbourne he said, it’s all down laneways and in arcades and hidden in the nooks and crannies only the locals know. He went on, commenting on the things that I had always taken for granted, most particularly the Melburnians propensity for black.

We ended up at a bar near the Arts Centre. We sat there sipping on a wine. At the next table were a table of very stylishly attired Melbourne women. I saw them as I had never seen them before. They had a glamour that I had forgotten living in Brisbane. They had an individuality and self-assurance that was very attractive. They were women in the best and most alluring sense of the word. Listening in they were discussing a show they had all just seen and I thought then that this is my town too, the place I belong.

Melbourne style, we’re all a part of it. 

You are what you wear

I went clothes shopping yesterday with JV. We're off to the Cox Plate next Saturday, and we both decided we could do with a new suit for the event.

We caught up a little after lunch and finished up an hour or so before dinner, and criss-crossed the CBD in search of the perfect racing suit: well made but just a touch funky. Just about everywhere we looked had a sale going, and there were some decent suits amongst it all. JV ended up with a pale grey Saba suit with thin lapels and narrow legged trousers - he looks like a sharpie.

I went more elegant. I found a Ted Baker suit with $300 off and thought was the go. It's navy blue so pretty conventional (though every bloke should have a navy suit), but with a subtle purple and lighter blue stripe through it. It might sound a little lairy but it's not at all - it's a very well made, very comfortable, very stylish piece of menswear. And I'm very happy, notwithstanding the fact it needs to get altered.

I've got a non-conventional body shape - I have broad shoulders but am slimmer in the hips, which generally means I'll mix a 46 jacket with 44 pants if I can get away with it. Unfortunately that was not possible yesterday, so the paints need to be taken in and shortened.

I've actually been wondering lately if I should be updating my wardrobe. I'm older than I used to be, though I don't really feel older. All the same, it's undeniable. I've pretty well been dressing in the same style for the last 20 odd years. I've never really thought about it until a few days ago. Then I caught myself. For once I noticed how some other men of my age are dressing, which is generally more conservative than me. Fuck me dead I thought, am I meant to be like that?

Everyone knows the mutton dressed up as lamb syndrome. You have to admire their optimism and determination, but it's no fun beholding a 70 year old woman dressed like a 20 year old. Now I'm not 70, not even close, and my style is vaguely timeless - jeans mostly, a t-shirt often, or a decent shirt or a jumper depending on the weather, and often paired with a coat or jacket of some description. If I'm going out I combine my best pair of dark jeans with a good pair of shoes, a sharp shirt and a sports jacket.I like clothes and I think I have good taste in general, but at what point do you consider dressing 'older'?

As much as anything this is a philosophical question. My generation in general is more relaxed and casual. Sure there are lots who get around in cords or chinos and won't go out without a sports jacket, even if it's just to do the grocery shopping. I can't see myself in cords, and I'd die rather than wear chinos - they're the fashion equivalent of beige (ok, ok, once or twice I paired up a pair of chinos with a polo shirt when I was consulting in Brisbane - a uniform up there).

Most of my friends have varying styles, but all have pretty well the same mindset as me: we dress for comfort mixed with style, and haven't changed much since we were 22. So, should I be thinking different?

I reckon if my circumstances were different maybe I would, oblivious of it almost. Yet it doesn't sit comfortably with me. I can't help but think the day I start wearing cords is the day I give up trying. It may seem a long bow, but in part it's this very question that had a lot to do with me cancelling that date last night.

Self image. Everyone has one, and I dare say for most people how they see themselves is different to how other people see them. Does that matter? Not really. Sure, many people dress to impress, and I'll be looking to do that in my new suit on Saturday, but ultimately you have limited control over how other people see you. Bottom line, you have to please yourself. If you're not happy in yourself then nothing else is going to happen.

Me, I've got healthy self image, if that wasn't already clear. I see myself a certain way, and it's important to me to hold true to certain principles to maintain that self-image. While pulling on pair of cords* might seem small beer in the fashion stakes, it is indicative to me of another state of mind. Now I'm not and I don't want to be conservative, safe or inoffensive. I don't intend to be wild, but nor do I want to lose my edge, whatever that is.

I'll look to refine my style and perhaps to take it to another level, but whatever I do it has to be in sync with how I feel. And there in those few words is the reason I called it quits last night. I didn't feel comfortable with who I was asked to be and so graciously backed out.

*I don't hate cord - I've worn it before and probably will again, it's just not who I am right now.

Time to move on

Last night we had our office Christmas party at a swank hotel on the banks of the Yarra river. It was pretty enough, a sit-down meal in elegant surroundings amongst colleagues and partners of colleagues. The night went pretty well exactly as I expected it to in such a safe venue, pleasant but unremarkable.

The most remarkable aspect of the night may have been some of the fashion choices. I often wonder what inspires people to these odd decisions. Is it that they have a weird mirror at home, that reveals them not as they are, but as they would like to be? Does the husband lie when asked the inevitable question - "no honey, your butt looks just fine in that"? Is it pure vanity - or do people simply not care? Or is just plain, everyday bad taste?

These ruminations are really only good for a few minutes sustenance. You may wonder why someone would choose to wear a kilt - particularly in weather like this. Or speculate on how in the world did she manage to squeeze into that - and why? You may ponder the sense in wearing a double-breasted burgundy jacket with gold buttons. Or why someone would choose to wear a faux fur stole. And so on. In the end you go with the flow, you eat, you drink, you laugh, you dance, all the while hoping that you have not yourself committed some fatal fashion crime.

And that's how it was. Pleasant but unremarkable. And a little something else too.

I knew this was the last of these Christmas parties I would be attending with this mob, and I was cool with that. I didn't feel particularly sentimental about any of it, and in fact felt myself drawn towards the shiny and uncertain future I have set myself for.

There was one thing I was very aware of though: the people who have left since last years party.

Last years party was great. It was a beautiful evening which we enjoyed standing on the 30th floor terrace enjoying finger food and cocktails. There was a very different vibe because it was a very different time. I spoke of this last night to one of my colleagues, of how it all seemed brighter and more optimistic then, even if it was an illusion.

I got home about 4am last year, whereas everyone had left last night by midnight. Last year I partied with the people I was close too, all of whom have gone now. I remember sharing a drink with Becky and Paige in PJ O'Briens in the after party. When they left Jennie stepped in - and I should have done more.

That was last year. They have gone and soon I will be too.

Relics

On the tram today I saw a man who looked like he might have walked out of the pages of Brideshead Revisited, dapper and effeminate. He was in his mid-twenties I imagine, he had a golden bouffant that looked like it had been precisely brushed for the requisite period of time, and a brown Prince of Wales check jacket with a maroon handkerchief poking up out of the breast pocket. A white shirt and a sky blue tie, complete with fawn trousers and oxblood brogues polished to within an inch of their life completed the ensemble. Well, almost. Truly completing it was the grey fedora he carried in his hands, before placing it onto his head as he alighted from the tram. It was a striking and unusual sight, let down perhaps in it’s purity of vision in the clash between a grey hat and a brown jacket – tut, tut. He stood out amongst the Japanese tourists in their Lacoste shirts and baggy shorts; the bored office workers in their shirt-sleeves; and the scruffier types like me, in t-shirt, old pair of jeans and a pair of thongs.

As much as the outfit was remarkable in this day and age in someone so young, it was the manner in which he carried it off. Looking at him I imagined he had carefully knotted his tie that morning, before folding his hanky into a peak and carefully inserting it into his pocket. There was apparent somewhere in his clothing and the way he carried it a sense of the ceremonial. There was a meticulous attention to detail that seemed to say much about the man. I’m sure he would have surveyed himself in the mirror that morning with an approving eye: just right.

Of course once upon a time people actually dressed that way, and not just upper class nobs from pre-war Britain. It’s not entirely unknown to see relics of that age still dress in suit, tie and hat each day as if it is only right and proper. My grandfather on my father’s side was such a man. He was not particularly dapper, nor fashionable, but like most of his generation favoured a conservative and timeless elegance – muted colours, generous cuts, fine fabrics. I remember as kid going into the city with him – I in casual attire, he in his flannels and tie - and how more often than not we would make our way to Henry Bucks, the most expensive and stately of the men’s stores. There he would look at the ties, try on a jacket, and perhaps purchase a set of cufflinks.

He was hardly alone, but it’s true that with the exception of the young man today, men like him are a dying breed. Most are now in their seventies and eighties. We live in an era of increasing casualness, not just in dress but also in manner. I think this has been a distinct cultural change that reflects much more than the superficial. Once upon a time the adherence to a kind of dress code marked out the rules by which people lived. These create boundaries which enabled people to understand exactly where they fit. Those boundaries are now almost entirely gone. In a lot of ways that is not a bad thing – but looking at the dapper fellow today you have to believe that once upon a time life was both more genteel and easier paced.

If I were a girl...

I put on my new suit and went into the city Friday. I walked down the street with my Ben Sherman suit on and the little Diesel bag I picked up in HK slung across my shoulders, and on my head the big new Sennheiser headphones connected to the iPod in the bag. I got on the tram and sat by the window. The tram was near empty. There was a friendly looking guy with a bunch of files in his lap - he smiled at me while I bought my ticket. Across from me on the other side of the aisle was a Bosnian woman. This I knew because the friendly looking guy - craving someone to be friendly with, I guess - went and sat opposite her and they began to talk. She had come from Bosnia with her husband. She loved Melbourne very much and enjoyed the weather. I listened to my iPod, listened to my favourite playlists. I saw myself in the reflection of the glass, headphones on, dark glasses, a stylish suit, reclining as if I had not a care in the world. I looked cool, truly.

I met with a couple of women to discuss my career. I had spoken to them on the phone and told them exactly what I wanted, nothing less. They wanted me to come in so they could hear it from my lips. I took the lift 30 floors to their office, and sat in the foyer waiting for them. Also there were two guys, between 30-35. They were nicely dressed in conservative pinstripes. They waited, folio's in their hands, jiggling their legs impatiently, picking up magazines to read and then putting them down again. Corporate jocks, I thought. I knew the type, knew how their world seemed in these few moments, how they dreamt of a distant but elusive pinnacle and how they put everything into attaining it, how they worked and sacrificed the hours and subverted themselves to the greater corporate good.

I sat there, almost in counterpoint to them. My suit was more funkadelic than conservative. My attitude was relaxed, easy-going. I reclined still, as I had in the tram, my arms spread across the adjoining suits. I looked straight ahead, thinking. On my right wrist a string of wooden beads were visible - this my sign, I am here on my terms, not yours. I looked at the blokes and thought truly, I was never like them. I was ambitious at one time and driven, driven still, in ways, but I was always myself, or so I figured. Strangely that made me a better proposition to employers, I was more rounded, more honest, more apt to speak my mind and to act - unconstricted as I was by not conforming to a template.

I met the consultants and laughed with them. We sat by the window high above Melbourne. It was cold out but the sun shone in those minutes and I looked out over the north and west of the city. Both the consultants were Brits, and women - common it seems for consultants in their industry these days. I told them what I wanted. Work in the CBD, or close by. Short assignments - part-time would be ideal. Forget anything else. Fine, they said, and scribbled notes on the hard copy of my resume. "There's something I wanted to ask you," the second consultant said. She was blonde. "How did you manage to achieve all that you have given your qualifications?"

"I'm just very clever, I guess," I said in answer, smiling. "Obviously", she replied. Truth is that I talked myself into positions and then had to make them happen. I over-promised and then over-delivered, again and again. That's how I was driven, to perform, and to prove a point. If I have any regrets about this path I have chosen it is that I will never find out how far I could have gone. Over many years I have had people spruiking me, pushing me to bigger and better things, often to my bewilderment - even in my last job. There have been times when I have wondered if it has been less a product of my performance than of my look, if that makes sense. Somehow I've always looked the part, always been calm and appeared in control - that counts for a lot, let me tell you, cosmetic as it is.

I left and wandered the streets for a bit. I popped into Koka in the Royal Arcade and had a chilli hot chocolate - it was very good, and genuinely spicy. I'd been there before and it was good to get back. In some way it's a good place to take visitors from abroad. There were Japanese tourists there and others who seemed to have come directly from the airport, their luggage stacked in the corner.

I went to the new bar in the GPO late in the day, Lexington. I like the GPO redevelopment very much, it is stylish, classy, very Melbourne. Lexington is on the top level, a long bar in a long narrow room with high ceilings. I got there just on 5, when it was just a quarter full. My first impressions were that it was a bit cold, antiseptic, but I anticipated it would be different as it filled. I ordered a vodka and tonic and sat down. The place began to fill and then my friend arrived and it filled more and more until it was full and loud and very lively.

Half the crowd were suits, as you would expect, but many were not, mainly women, dressed in a rich variety of outfits. It gave me pause to consider what I had written nights before about St Kilda women. Here was a similar diversity of fashions and attitudes, and it was great to behold. This I mentioned to my friend, who was excited by the truth of it. Melbourne is so great like that, she said. She explained how she mixes up her styles, inspired by what she sees around her and the daring edge of things. She was dressed in a dark suit, stylish but conservative. I wear boxer shorts sometimes, she told me. You'll have to show me sometime I almost said.

Earlier in the day I had stood in Collins street early for my appointment. Somehow I passed the time by wondering what my style would be if I was a woman. Well, I figured, I'd tall, blonde and buxom if I was a girl. While that's not really the family type, it seems the feminine equivalent of my build. Dressing casually I would be quirky, I pondered, dark colours in the classic Melbourne style, but lifted and enlivened by colour - earth tones mainly. I would do layers too, again, very Melbourne. And for work? Skirts I thought, and long boots, yes! Every bloke likes a long boot on a shapely leg. Well, why not? As a woman I would invest in couple of pairs of tight-fitting, knee length boots. Man, that makes a statement.

In the spirit of the moment I told my friend all this. She was amused, and a little surprised. I'll have to watch you trying to get into my pants, she said. Once more I refrained from the obvious comments. The conversation was opened now, and free-flowing. I told of my recent meeting with trans-gendered people. She admitted to a brief girl on girl flirtation in her early twenties - boring really, it was just like kissing me. And so on.

We sat on the banquette. To my right there was a little space. Across from us were two girls in their mid-twenties chatting together. I had been aware of them from the corner of my eye, one in particular. She was blonde and slim. She wore tight fitting jeans with a gold, chain link belt, and a gold top that revealed her flat abs. She was beautiful though in a perfectly conventional way. You may look at her and admire her looks but there was nothing there to fascinate, no mystery as such, no quirk in her features that made you wonder. I had admired her and looked away, but had felt her close as if she was aware of me. You know that feeling. It's not in the eyes so much but the mind, as if you can pick up the psychic waves of that interest. It's what makes people turn around sometimes, certain they are being observed. That's what I felt, gently scrutinised as I carried on our lively conversation.

We were interrupted by the girls. Do you mind shifting along a little to make room? Sure, no problem. We shifted along. The blonde girl went to step over the low table separating her from the banquette, and I put out my hand for her. She took my hand and I steadied her as she stepped over the table and sat by my side. Thanks, she said. I returned to my conversation.

About 15 minutes later I felt something on my leg. My head was attentively bent to the conversation but my mind went to my leg, to the feeling of splayed fingers barely touching sliding down my leg, and the hand lowering till it sat momentarily on my quad and then squeezed, so lightly, before disappearing.

Did I really feel it? Was it my imagination? I did nothing. I continued to talk and when I could glanced at the blonde girl, astonished. She gave no sign, she talked to her friend.

Soon after we left. I said goodbye to my friend and climbed aboard a tram, the iPod once more plugged in. I looked out the window at the dark and the bright lights and wished I had of responded somehow, somewhat astonished still.

St Kilda girls

I remember listening to the Beach Boys singing 'California Girls' when I was a kid and getting all pissed off about it. East coast girls might be this, and girls from the midwest might be that, but what about Aussie girls? What about girls from France, Germany or Italy? Or from Sierre Leone for that matter (elusive but sweet, apparently)?

Last night I caught up for beer and pizza with Cheeseboy and JK at a pizza joint in Barkly street, just around the corner from Acland. We sat outside under the warmth of one of those tall, gas-powered heaters. We drank Italian beer and ate what were very good pizzas, though not cheap. As we sat and talked bullshit a steady stream of people went by, many of them stopping to enter the pizza place to pick up their take-away or to sit inside with a glass of red, a pizza, and a date.

As is my wont I watched these comings and goings, which is when the Beach Boys song came to mind.

With some degree of knowledge I could write about women from different parts of the world. Similarly I could break it down further and split it out by Australian city - each has a different culture and style, and the residents - male and female - reflect that. Melbourne style is reasonably distinctive and well known - black goes well. In general Melbourne women are stylish and often elegant, social, well-read, they take an interest in fashion and very often food, and some go a bit further to become politically committed in some sphere or another - the environment, animal rights, human rights etc. It's a good style.

St Kilda women are a sub-group of that. St Kilda is one of those suburbs that has such a unique style of its own that the decision to live there in the first instance reveals much about the person. St Kilda women share much with their sisters in other parts of the city, but also have the imprint of the suburb they live in. It is many different things perhaps, but can be summarised I think as independence. St Kilda women are, in general, more independent. They are committed to a certain lifestyle, social in large part but tinged with the bohemian. They enjoy life and drink fully from the glass - and there are few places better than St Kilda for that. At the same time they follow their own desires - a little more artistic perhaps, a tad more alternative - and are committed to that. The best of them are 'much woman'.

There are very diverse types of women in St Kilda, and what I have described is not a template but rather a general drift. I watched many go by last night and every one was different. There was one girl sitting in the window of the pizza parlour that JK took to. He pointed her out to me: see the girl in red? I thinks she nice, I like her. I looked over at her. She was young, with a red top on and a skirt flecked with more red. She had dark hair and big eyes and perhaps an innocent air - as if she had not yet fully supped from that cup - a feel almost of a slightly alternative schoolteacher. I nodded my head, she's nice. Throughout dinner JK continued to point her out to me as if each time it was the first, until we urged him finally to do something about it. Not to be - she was with her boyfriend, an earnest and borderline geeky guy who seemed a good type.

Cheeseboy left to join Cheesegirl and so JK headed up Acland street and onto Fitzroy. We went to the George, where a female colleague of JK's had been texting him from all through the night: please come! So we went. As usual there was a good crowd there and a good amount of the aforementioned St Kilda type girls. There were also some different types there, blow-ins from the Grand Prix down the road.

I was only going to stay for one beer but that unsurprisingly became a few more. It was noisy enough that conversation was not easy and I was feeling tired and little sore still from my training session the day before. We met up with JK's friend, A, who had had a couple after attending the Grand Prix practice sessions earlier, and was inclined, as is often the case, to dance or to karaoke - despite there being no music.

At one stage alone I got out my notebook from the little bag I carried with me and, opening it, began to write. I used to carry a notebook like that with me all the time once. It is handy to jot down things you see or hear, or little scenes you might otherwise forget. Last night I wrote about the ambient sound, a steady roar that if listened too hard enough individual sounds - voices, laughter, conversation - could be discerned. Otherwise it was background noise that we hardly noticed. As I wrote I noticed that I was drawing attention to myself.

A had been speaking to a lean guy with a wispy beard and a good head of long blonde hair that he had swept ocer one eye. He wore a t-shirt with a picture of Jesus on it and some legend I can't recall. At the time I thought he had selected that t-shirt because he was a dead-ringer for Jesus himself. I looked up to find both he and A were watching me. I winked an eye or something, feeling myself caught unawares and a little revealed. After a moment the Jesus lookalike spoke to me. "Are you a writer?" he asked me.

What the heck, I thought. "Yeah, I'm a writer," I answered - though I see now I should have corrected him and told him I was a wordsmith. He asked me what I was writing. He was clearly very interested. I put my notebook away and shrugged my shoulders. Not much I told him, just impressions. He nodded his head.

We left soon after. I had met the Gaz's, the Seans, had checked out the St Kilda girls and engaged in conversation with a guy looking like Jesus. I'd drunk enough. We left, JK and I, while A gently swayed to the music the alcohol had made her hear.

We walked home, discussing Danish breasts, the Mens Gallery and all the usual stuff a couple of men with a couple of beers under their belt discuss on balmy St Kilda nights.