The roar of cougar style

I’VE never been one to follow the fashion rule book.

I tend to use mine as a tea coaster or a draft excluder. This has always been the case. I remember a colleague in the early noughties once referring to my dress sense as rebellious. He said this with a tone of envy as if somehow his Hugo Boss suit had left him short-changed. I also remember being unsure as to how wearing heels with parachute pants qualified for maverick status.

This is my point. I wear what I like and I like what I wear. The older I get, the more absolute my reaction. In two months and two days I’ll be 40. Seemingly this makes me a cougar which pleases me, if only to repatriate the term to its rightful social standing.