Let me paint you a picture. It’s December 14th. The time is 6:43pm. I’m wedged in the armpit of a stranger on the Northern Line, sweat beading despite the subzero temperatures outside, mascara already migrating south, and my carefully selected sequin skirt is doing that thing where it slowly rotates around my body like it’s trying to make a break for it. My tights have a run that started as a pinprick at my flat but has now extended from ankle to mid-thigh with impressive determination. My shoes—gorgeous, impractical satin monstrosities—are still in my tote bag because I’m not a complete idiot, but they’ve somehow managed to spill the emergency makeup I packed, which means my travel card is now frosted with bronzer. I haven’t even reached the Christmas party yet, and I already look like I’ve been through a very festive war.
Sound familiar? Course it does. We’ve all been there, contemplating our life choices as we try to navigate the hellscape that is British public transport during festive party season while dressed like a malfunctioning disco ball.
Last year, after a particularly traumatic journey to my office Christmas do that involved standing in sleet for 27 minutes waiting for a bus that Google Maps had frankly lied about, I made myself a promise: never again would I sacrifice practicality for party sparkle. There had to be a better way. So I’ve spent the past 12 months on a mission, testing party outfits against the triple threat of public transport, British weather, and the need to not look like you’ve been dragged through a hedge backwards by the time you arrive.
The results of my extremely scientific research (read: a lot of trial and error, several near-hypothermic incidents, and one memorable night where I ended up with a stranger’s chewing gum stuck to my “special occasion” coat) are finally ready to share. You’re welcome.
First things first: layers are your best friend, but not just any layers. The trick is what I’ve come to call the “party sandwich” approach. Base layer: something thin, breathable, preferably moisture-wicking because, let’s face it, the central line is basically a moving sauna even in December. Middle layer: the actual pretty bit that people will see at the party. Outer layer: something waterproof that doesn’t make you look like you’re about to climb Ben Nevis.
For the base layer, I’ve landed on those seamless long-sleeved tops from Uniqlo’s Heattech range. Not the ultra warm ones—rookie error I made last year that resulted in me looking like I’d just emerged from a swimming pool by the time I’d climbed one set of stairs at Oxford Circus—but the regular ones. They’re thin enough to disappear under your outfit but effective enough to stop you freezing when you inevitably have to wait 20 minutes for an Uber at 2am.
Now for the star of the show: the middle layer. After considerable experimentation, I’ve found that anything with sequins attached directly to a stretchy base fabric is asking for trouble. One enthusiastic reach for the last vol-au-vent at the buffet, and suddenly you’ve got a rip that exposes more than your taste in underwear. Instead, go for something with the sparkle woven in—those metallic threading numbers that give you the disco ball effect without the structural vulnerability.
My absolute go-to this year has been a midnight blue knitted dress from COS with silver thread running through it. Doesn’t look like much on the hanger—my flatmate Kira called it “aggressively understated” when I brought it home—but catch it under party lights and it’s magical. More importantly, it’s survived three different Christmas parties, two wine spillages, and being stuffed into my gym bag when I had to make an unexpected outfit change after a coffee incident. The thing is indestructible. At £89 it wasn’t cheap, but cost per wear it’s already down to about £30 and we’re only halfway through December.
For those who prefer separates, I’ve found success with a black velvet blazer from &Other Stories (an investment at £165 but I’ve had it three years now and it’s still going strong) paired with literally anything on the bottom half. The velvet is hardy enough to withstand being crushed against eighteen thousand other commuters, but still looks expensive. The trick is finding the right weight—too light and it wrinkles, too heavy and you’ll be sweating bullets before you’ve even reached the office Secret Santa exchange.
Speaking of bottom halves, after extensive field testing (including one disastrous night where I wore a satin midi skirt on a rainy evening and ended up with what looked like tide marks around my bum), I’ve concluded that the most indestructible option is a pair of wide-leg trousers in a dark colour. Not black—too obvious and shows every bit of fluff/salt/mysterious Underground grime—but navy, deep green, or burgundy. Zara do a high-waisted wide-leg in a slightly stretchy material that I’ve put through hell and back, and they still look decent. They’ve got subtle gold threading in the fabric that catches the light when you move, giving just enough “I’ve made an effort” energy without screaming “I’M OFF TO A PARTY” at everyone on the Jubilee line.
Shoes remain the eternal problem child in this equation. I’ve tried carrying party shoes separately, but even that’s fraught with peril. Last February, I turned up to a work event with two left shoes because I’d been packing in the dark. Another time, I’d carefully wrapped my heels in a tote only to find that my water bottle had leaked, leaving me with soggy satin nightmares.
My solution now is a pair of block-heeled ankle boots in a fabric that can handle a bit of rain. Russell & Bromley do an excellent black suede pair that have been treated with so much protector spray they could probably survive a small tsunami. At £245 they were eye-wateringly expensive, but given that I’ve worn them to every event for the past two years, the cost per wear is now down to pennies. They’re comfortable enough to commute in but smart enough that I don’t feel like I need to change when I arrive.
Alternatively, if you’re committed to the full party shoe fantasy, those fold-up ballet flats that come in their own pouch are lifesavers. Yes, they’re a bit naff. Yes, they make a mockery of any attempt at a sophisticated look when you’re changing in the pub toilets. But they’re a damn sight better than navigating night buses barefoot because your toes have gone on strike, which I may or may not have done in 2018 after a particularly brutal Christmas party (the details remain fuzzy, but the tetanus booster I needed afterward was very real).
Then there’s the outerwear question. The holy grail is finding a coat that’s warm enough for a British winter, doesn’t destroy your outfit by crushing it, and doesn’t make you look like you’re on a Duke of Edinburgh expedition. After years of suffering with either style (but freezing) or warmth (but looking like a sentient duvet), I finally found the answer in a wool-cashmere blend wrap coat from Reiss. It was £365 which made me physically wince at the checkout, but it’s roomy enough to go over party clothes without squashing them, structured enough to still look smart, and the belt means I can cinch it when I inevitably end up going straight from office to bar without a chance to drop off my daytime stuff.
For those with shorter commutes or hardier constitutions, a faux fur jacket is the ultimate party season power move. Warehouse currently has one in emerald green for £89 that’s been getting me compliments from strangers on the tube. The beauty of faux fur is that it actually looks better slightly rumpled, so being crushed on public transport works in its favour. Just don’t wear it in actual rain unless you enjoy the wet dog aesthetic.
Accessories-wise, I’ve learned through bitter experience to keep things minimal for the journey. Statement earrings go in a pill box in my bag until I reach my destination—after losing one of my favourite pairs down a drain outside Tottenham Court Road station during an unexpected gust of wind, I take no chances. Same goes for delicate necklaces that seem magnetically attracted to getting caught in coat zips.
The final piece of the puzzle is the bag situation. You need something big enough to carry essential touch-up supplies but not so enormous you become that person taking up three seats on the tube. After much experimentation, I’ve settled on a leather bucket bag that zips fully closed (crucial for preventing the makeup explosion incidents of Christmas Past) with a separate small clutch inside for when I reach the party and don’t want to lug the big bag around. Mango does a good bucket option for about £49, and honestly, at this point the sales assistants there probably have a photo of me behind the counter with “approach with caution, will talk about bag compartments for 45+ minutes” written underneath.
Last year, my ultimate test case was the company Christmas party at a fancy hotel in Knightsbridge. It was pouring rain, freezing cold, and of course, half the tube lines were experiencing “minor delays” (translation: absolute chaos). I wore the navy COS dress, the treated ankle boots, the wrap coat, and carried a small selection of emergency supplies (blotting papers, mini deodorant, lipstick, and plasters for inevitable shoe rub). I arrived looking… well, not fresh off a catwalk exactly, but certainly not like I’d been recently shipwrecked, which by December party standards is a roaring success.
The greatest compliment came from our office manager, Sandra, who cornered me by the prosecco fountain (yes, that was a thing, and yes, it was as gloriously tacky as it sounds) to ask how I’d managed to look “so put together” when she’d seen me battling through the same monsoon-like conditions she’d endured.
“Practice, preparation, and a slightly unhealthy obsession with practical party dressing,” I told her, before demonstrating how my dress didn’t show prosecco spills—which I then immediately proved by knocking over my glass. Sandra now messages me before every office event for outfit advice, which I consider the highest form of fashion endorsement.
So there you have it—the exhaustive guide to festive party outfits that acknowledge the grim reality of UK winter public transport. Is it as glamorous as stepping out of a chauffeur-driven car in a wisp of silk and sequins? No. Is it significantly less likely to end with you crying in a night bus shelter while clutching broken shoe straps? Absolutely yes. And that, my friends, is the true Christmas miracle we should all be celebrating.
