I could say I was here to tell you my Outfit Of The Day origin story. But that would make me sound like a right banker. And I’m not a banker. If I were my fight for autistic-appropriate NHS therapeutic support would have been won years ago – with an obliging bank card and a private health insurance provider. No, I’m no banker. Instead, I’m an ageing autistic AuADHD queer DJ seeking a way to fit in. Always seeking a way to fit in.

So back to that OOTD origin story. I’ve always wanted to have my say. My opinions and wonky way of seeing the world running along a sense of humour too dry for Bond as that filter you all seem to have fails to kick in for me. Social media fits me – a land full of wonky wiring and filter-less humour, happy to welcome the queer, the odd, the geek, theweirdo. All the things that singled me out at school, bringing me my tribe online.

As an elderly DJ sticking out amongst the black and white shots, aching thought through content, heaving dancefloor moments and hands-in-the-air captures was never going to happen. Hey Queenie and Wildblood’s wittering’s on okay for the few but not the many. But when someone suggested the wild west of TikTok and really engaging with Instagram back in April 2024 I thought I’d give it one last go.

The masking I’ve learnt to manage life kicked in and the need to strike the right pose was sought as I scrolled through the successful and the loved. Just like the socials of the DJ world, this elderly deck player even with the addition of the life force that is our Queenie was never going to pass the cut – our kitchen too battered, our skin too wrinkled, our lifestyle too wonky. But as I scanned the images scrolling past my pupils I noted one thing. Our dyke demographic. A fit we could make, aged yes, but lesbian, oh so lesbian.

But if the audience was there what would be the Wildblood and Queenie story? What did I need from that share button to make this fix one for me? It seemed our cat wasn’t clumsy enough, our gigs not cinematic enough, our history not sticky enough, our Get Ready With Me not, well, just not. What did the internet want of us? Turns out it was clothes on. Clothes definitely on.

One post, one outfit of the day, every day. Simple. We had the clothes. (A loft full of them thanks to this one’s inability to not collect). We had the locations. National Trust membership, Wickes car parks, beloved dancefloors, and not-so-dreamy seaside home – check). And thanks to 32 years of us we had that connection. That look. At each other. With each other. Plus I had that determination. Okay, let’s be a little more honest. That obsession. Once a special interest, always an all-immersive obsessive special interest. Well until the next one comes along. I may not be able to focus or prioritise or clear life’s endless internal monologue but when I say I’m doing to do something I DO IT. Like Nike but without the ££££s.

Only there was a problem with this plan: a fly-in-the-button fly of those perfectly preserved 501s. I don’t do change. Not everyday change. I like the same. I like everything the same. My autistic wiring only soothed by finding relief in repeat. I actually enjoy getting stuck. The same routines. The same journeys. The same TV. The same food. The same clothes. Every. Single. Day. Rigidity or rigid behaviour they call it. Like the thinking in my brain. Like a train on a very straight track, unable to bend, detour or stop. I don’t do change.

It’s how I get addicted. And 55 years down the wankered line that’s how I broke addiction. It was the drink that was favoured, the coke my constant friend, the fags my doomed saviour. I do the same things every day to fit my fucked up head. It soothes me. It saves me. It fucks me. Because the world isn’t rigid. You aren’t rigid. Change is everywhere and every day. Things move on, develop, and are cancelled, they never remain the same. And I needed to deal with that.

Before Queenie and I began OOTD I would wear the same clothes a lot. Daily if possible. The perfect jumper, the softest of shirts, the itch-free jeans, the spot-on pair of breathable, not too hot, not too cold, never too tight, perfectly soft patterned but not overly so, plain but quality socks, and always one of the seven pairs of the same pair of white cotton gusset M&S big pants. Finding them a mission, removing myself from obsessively wearing them once found a task I would usually fail. Rhythms and patterns. The same jumper, the same toast for lunch, the same routines. Each and every day. If not the day ruined, the sequence broken, the nagging twitch, the underlying itch destroying that soothing status quo. Sensory overload and a love/hate affair with the textures that bound me ensured change was never had. Add a sense of self down on the floor of the wardrobe I barely flicked through (the favoured items always front and centre) and a mirror I avoided as the plague of itchy gifted socks sat in the back of my drawers and this soul chances of striking a pose to be looked at one I always dreaded.

And yet one day a switch flipped (like it usually does when I detour real hard with no notice from life’s comfort zone) and I found myself deciding I too wanted to parade myself in front of strangers in my front room – an outfit chosen, shared and shared some more.Of course, we looked what we were. 55 and 61 years old. Wrinkled and not always ironed, tired and grey-haired, Little and Large, badly lit, not an external mic in sight and absolutely not social media savvy. But for some reason, you took to us. The wobbly camera, the rescue dog with no tail, the not-so-picturesque backdrops. There were no big labels, no sponsored content, no look-at-me wide shots of superstar DJs at festivals or on loved-up perfect holidays. We talked about autistic meltdowns and bad hair days, menopause and wrinkles. We looked exhausted and battered, blown off course by Cornish winds and life’s tougher moments. We creaked across the floorboards, dropped phones and swore at crappy tripods (4 down and counting). We danced, we pointed, we found some lesbians. We even occasionally OOTD with others. Their humouring of us was a well-dressed blessing.

There were of course the trolls and the discovery of hidden words as the homophobic hatred spilled into our algorithm if we dared to accidently fall into theirs. The body shamers and god thumpers determined to damn us to forever being get crisp downstairs. But alongside the hate was the glorious. The love, the beautiful queer love, the allies who got us, the magnificent menopausal mob who saw themselves, the sweet wonders who sang at us in the street, who came and said hello at gigs, the We Are Love family who danced with us, the kids appreciating the role models and the communities within our LGBTQIA+ family who appreciated our words (and placards) of support.

The autistic reality of committing to something like OOTD is the no-shows. The days I can’t share, the moments not outlift could save. And there’s been a fair few. 265 days since we started, 202 outfits shared, 63 days not. There have also been lots of OOTDs directly before or after a meltdown – days defined by violent head-hitting stims, angry outbursts, mute hours, self-harm, depression, breakdowns, and despair as my inability to regulate my emotions hits hard and destroys whatever day that outfit may have graced.

We started Outfit on the Day on 16^th April. So this ain’t no anniversary post. But it is a reality check. A moment to reflect on the break in service as I take a detour from the socials and my work life in an attempt to manage yet another autistic burnout. New Year, same old story, only this time I hope a little kinder as I step back from life, address the overload and attempt the replenishment – only engaging in the parts of life that put back the spoons after months in deficit. Walking the dawg, gawping in galleries, ADHD coaching, feeding my (decaf) coffee addiction, embracing the skint (feel my root veg stew joy), losing reality via Lego (any sets donations appreciated), finishing the books I found so impossible to focus this year, and writing. Tendring High’s Mrs Hill would be proud of the latter. Oh, the latter. A new promise to myself. Write more. Write lots more. Hence this new adventure on Substack.

But as I take heed of the medical profession and withdraw for a while to focus on the recharge I’m missing those outfit changes. There’s a sweet soothing now about wearing the same, repeating the menus, caning the routine but I can’t help but think about the clothes that sit in the ironing pile next to my desk waiting for their day out, the grin on Queenie’s face as she sings outfit of the daaaaaaaaaaaaaay. The connection to that most social of communities that embraced my differences, allowed me to look in the mirror again without wincing and who told me it was going to be okay. I did that one thing I thought I couldn’t do. Something different every day. Too honest sometimes. Too random sometimes. But I did it. Who knew?

See you soon OOTD watchers. I still have a pose to strike. Might take a few weeks to get there but I still have a pose to strike. See you at the front. Eventually.

Join #OOTD on Wildblood and Queenie’s Instagram. Keep it warm for me. I’ll be back there soon. Honest.