Cosplay

On the eve of the first Democratic debate, I was sat alone at a table in the bar of the Miami Hilton. I’d worked out that many of the candidates were staying there, and figured it would be a good place to get some work done while surreptitiously keeping my ears pricked for gossip. I was dressed as any conference-going Spectator journalist would be: white shirt, sleeves rolled up, dark blue suit trousers, black shoes, suspenders, a royal blue tie (for my native soccer team Brighton, of course), and no suit jacket. You may well not care about what I was wearing: but trust me, it will soon become relevant. A woman approached my table and asked if she could borrow one of the vacant chairs.