Trapped insidemy own private wooly prison

Does wearing a black turtleneck sweater instantly turn you into a social leper? One thing's for sure, throat huggers do not make for appropriate karaoke garb. More of that later though, let's begin at the beginning - Friday morning. I rose with the knowledge that I had worn the last of my clean clothes the day before. I did have an aired pair of slacks but no shirt that wouldn't offend my colleagues' nasal passages. And so I went with the turtleneck sweater that I had bought the previous weekend and had intended to reserve for fine wine tastings, film seminars, poetry recitals, gallery unveilings, humidor shopping and deep sea fishing with captains of industry.

Instantly I felt more eyes on me than usual, like searing laser beams of disapproval for trying to be something I'm not. I imagined these onlookers were thinking: "that chump thinks he's soooo sophisticated, doesn't he?"

In my mind, the condemnation of my apparel was mushrooming. On my way to get an espresso (damn, only snobs and wannabe playwrights drink espresso!) I happened to pass a group of builders. As it stands, I have a phobia of such burly types and in my country of birth I would always mentally prepare myself for an onslaught of wily barbs whenever I came into contact with tradesmen. I walked briskly passed this group that were huddled outside of China Daily, which is currently a hive of construction, and immediately noticed the smirks on the men's faces. In a feeble attempt to gain favor with the gents, I murmured a half-arsed "ni hao", and a few of the gang replied, albeit in a deliberately effeminate tone. Their laughter echoed in my ears long after the bitterness of the coffee shot had faded from my mouth. I ran, screaming to the smog smeared skies "Turtleneck wearers are human too you know! Damn you! Damn you all!"

There was not enough time to change before meeting friends that evening at an embassy bar for drinky-poos and chit-chat. Again the black turtleneck became a target for strangers' derision. A dress-up party was being thrown for a few diplomats who were leaving Beijing, but even those who bothered to adhere to the theme were less the subject of mocking glances than me and my fancy-schmancy pullover. I soon scurried to the door like a damned ghoul as guests pointed and laughed in unison. Tears streamed down my frost bitten cheeks as I made my way to a karaoke bar.

But wouldn't you know, the heating was jammed up high in this particular house of merry song, and beads of sweat cascaded down my brow - it was hot as Hades under my thick collar. Later, as the alcohol began to flow and the inhibitions gave way to slurred singing, one girl, who I had only just met, giggled and said: "Ha ha! Bit hot for that turtleneck isn't it mate?" Alas, I was not wearing an undershirt. I felt trapped inside a wooly prison. It had become a moist straightjacket, leaving me defenseless against the cruel criticism of turtleneckists.

This seemingly innocent but now much-maligned item of clothing now lies at the bottom of the dirty pile along with my spandex man-vest and neon velour jumpsuit. Sigh.