At the Depeche Mode concert last night, I was wearing silver stiletto heels and black trousers with lots of zippers. My friend Vanessa was also wearing black, with copper heels, and we both wore old-school leather jackets with lots of hardware. This is not how I usually dress, even though my professional life does involve museum lectures and contemporary art shows. This was not an ordinary costume. It was a personal fashion show, a performative artifact, that seemed appropriate for the nostalgia. It allowed me to penetrate the performance and become an active participant. It allowed me to transgress in a safe and playful way, without shame. In particular, it allowed me to ignore my usual fear about possibly being seen by my students while engaging in non-professor-like behaviour.

At the same time, as we were dancing to Just Can't Get Enough, I was also completely ignoring Vanessa and, in fact, everything else around me, because I was busy SMS'ing all of my closest friends. My eyes were focused on the little screen of my phone, concentrating hard to deploy my mid-thirties mobile typing skills, sending messages like "I am at a Depeche Mode show!!!" and "I am wearing silver stilletto heels!!!".