The wrong collar

I’ve had a recurring dream for many years – pretty much ever since I was first privileged enough to go to an event at Guildhall in the City of London.

In the dream, I’m off to another formal event – always at Guildhall, always white tie. Guildhall is also always the same – as constant and grand as it has been since the 15th century. The occasion is always equally grand: dignitaries, medals, sashes, badges of office. A banquet, probably, with lots of flowers, linen and even more cutlery and glassware than usual.

I’m not speaking. I’m not presiding. I’m not a guest of honour. Not on the top table. I’m just there, attending. In the cheap seats.

Everything is almost in order, except for one thing.

Sometimes, I’ve left the invitation card at home. Sometimes I have forgotten to put my shoes on (odd though that might sound, but I find myself padding around Guildhall in my socks, or even barefoot). Or left my Past Master’s badge on the Elizabeth Line. Last time I was wearing the wrong shirt. I wasn’t there in anything wholly inappropriate, like a polo shirt, or anything outlandish (not that I own anything as wild as a Hawaiian shirt of course). In fact, I was wearing a formal shirt. Just not formal enough. A turned down collar rather than a wing collar. Just the job for a black tie event. But for white tie?

No. That would never do.

To most people this would either go unnoticed, or at the very least forgiven as the most minor of sartorial transgressions. But to some – to me at least – it matters.

It’s very easy to dismiss dreams as the subconscious mixing up and processing fragments of daily life. And usually, I’ve forgotten most dreams by the time I’m stumbling towards the shower. But this one stays with me. And the more I think about it, I don’t think it’s entirely about clothing at all.

The emotional weight of being ‘exactly right’

Many of us operate in personal or professional environments where precision and symbolism carry real weight. Whether it’s within boardroom rituals, in civic, Livery or ceremonial life, in the judiciary or in the military, being ‘almost right’ can feel as unsettling as being completely wrong.

It’s that moment when a colleague removes two millimetres of stray thread from your uniform, with a faux chastising ‘tut’ and a half-smile. Not out of criticism, but out of care. As part of a shared understanding that values and standards matter – especially when you’ve been entrusted to set and uphold them, in whatever sphere.

So, this isn’t about tradition for tradition’s sake, or exclusivity, stuffiness or discomfort. It’s about language: the silent codes reflecting credibility, belonging and attention to detail. It’s hardly surprising that the fear of falling short can carry real emotional weight. Not out of show, but out of respect.

Formality or identity?

I was ten when I first wore something that didn’t feel quite right.

The Reading School grey suit. Too big, too different, too heavy with approaching 900 years of history and meaning. I was the youngest boy in my year (having skipped a year at Alfred Sutton Primary and never caught up), ‘clever’ by the reputation I didn’t know I had, but ordinary by instinct. I wasn’t at all brilliant, though, despite what they said. I was just learning. Learning how to fit in with bigger boys (a year is a long time when you’re ten). How to sit still. How to carry the weight of others’ expectations without showing that you were carrying anything at all. And although they still called me ‘clever’ (a label which carried even more weight of expectation), cleverness almost became a performance. It had to. Looking like you understood everything in class, even when you didn’t. Something to live up to. Something to be worn. And worn correctly at all times. Because the moment it slips, 11 year olds become unforgiving. Especially when you’re ten. That’s the law of the playground.

The wrong collar in my dream is, I think, a symbol of dissonance rather than ignorance or carelessness. It’s about being almost, but not quite, in step with the unspoken expectations of a place or a role. When stepping into institutions with long histories and layered rituals, you may not know the rules. So, you respect them as best you can, of course, and learn them over time. But you also bring your own story, your own history, your own way of being. Sometimes the biggest impact is one of over-correction: internalising standards so deeply that you never quite stop checking yourself, no matter how many times you’ve done something before. Because you care about what you are doing. Because you want to feel aligned, and part of things, even in the cheap seats.

Sometimes, at some point during the dream, I get lost on the way from the cloakroom to the Great Hall. I know the route and have walked it countless times. I’ve always found my way there and back in real life, even when, er, ‘refreshed’. But in the dream, corridors twist, doors don’t open, or just lead to unexpected places they shouldn’t. There is a real sense of dislocation – knowing that it looks like you belong but not knowing how to move through everything.

And in my Guildhall dream, I’m not being judged or scrutinised. I’m not even required to be there. But I still feel I should have arrived perfectly attuned. That’s the quiet pressure of belonging to institutions built on order, or expectation.

There’s a person behind every outfit

The dream isn’t about being judged by others at all. It’s about the weight of self-judgment.

Leadership and service are almost inevitably accompanied by the quiet, relentless pressure of always being ready. What to wear, what to say, what to do. And when this goes wrong – even in a dream – it raises an even deeper question: am I doing justice to this role?

But here’s the thing: in striving for flawless, almost robotic presentation, we risk losing touch with what makes us most effective and, dare I say, interesting: our humanity, fallibility, personality, history and authenticity.

So what?

I don’t think the dream is trying to warn me about packing shirts carefully. I think it’s reflecting the challenges faced by anyone who lives a life where excellence matters, but where the stakes are just as emotional as they are practical. The truth is the collar mattered to me because the event mattered. The people mattered. The tradition mattered. The detail mattered.

But maybe the dream is telling me something else too: that showing up, even 1% misaligned, is still ok, and that we can perhaps honour the institutions we serve better not by being perfect, but by showing up – even wearing the wrong collar – with our best selves, flaws and all, to the table.

Provided we can find it, of course.