So what do I have in common with Sarah Palin outside of a perky smile? Clothes, that’s what. More correctly, clothes designed to make me more job worthy.

Undoubtedly you remember how the Republicans spent $150,000 to spruce up her wardrobe so she would have a better crack at the office of vice president. She looked better, but came up short.

Many years ago I found myself in the same position as Ms. Palin; I was looking for a job and it seemed my wardrobe was hindering me. I had been working in Montreal radio where clothes don’t count and I had decided to quit. There was a job available at The Financial Post in Toronto and, strange to say, it seemed to fit my talents.

But it was a grim and forbidding place in those days, a newspaper authoritative and staid where men wore dark suits and fedoras and the women were mostly kept out of sight.

I had neither suit nor hat but I needed that job and when a friend lined me up with an interview I knew I had to dress with care. I put on a blue button-down shirt and my dark blue hand-woven tie with a knot the size of a grapefruit. Lacking a true suit, I opted for my tan corduroy jacket and cord trousers which almost matched in dim light.

Footwear was a problem but it was snowing in Montreal on the day I was flying down for the job interview so I laced up my new Kodiak work boots — barely scuffed. Topped off with a duffel coat, I found myself quite presentable.

The interviewing panel at the paper consisted of six men, most of whom seemed to be connected to advertising. They were darkly-suited and whitely-shirted and the knots in their ties were the size of peanuts. Although I didn’t realize it, in their midst I was an exotic bloom. They were polite in their questions and I was detailed in my answers, for the topic was magazines and this was a field I knew.

I felt I had done well — especially when they told me to expect a second interview in a week. I went out and had a drink. Little did I know that my friend who had got me the interview in the first place had phoned my wife in Montreal with a terse message: “Tell him to buy some real clothes.”

When I returned to Montreal I was taken shopping even though I protested. “They liked me,” I said. “I don’t need fancy clothes.” She begged to differ. “They thought you looked like an aging hippie,” she said. And we kept on shopping.

I got several white shirts, a muted paisley tie, a dark grey suit — and perhaps most important of all, new black oxford shoes. The only thing missing was a fedora. The duffel coat had to go and I replaced it with an old raincoat which was respectable if not warm.Thus, when I turned up in Toronto for my second interview, I fit right in. I could easily pass for a minor executive or an ad salesman. And yes, I got the job.

After I had earned a couple of paycheques, I went out and acquired two dark-hued bespoke suits, complete with vests. Plus several ties that would not be out of place at the funeral of a monarch. As for my original corduroy outfit, it was never seen again. On most days I wore my black oxfords but when it snowed I reverted to my Kodiaks.

This breach of the office dress code brought heavy sighs and stern glances from upper management and quite likely I would have been called on the carpet. Except that the little part of the operation that had been given into my care suddenly perked up. For years it had been losing money but now, through a combination of good luck and good times, it turned around.

We made a profit of $943,000 and with that management decided to let me keep wearing the boots. They are a bit run down now but if Sarah Palin wants them, they are hers for the asking. IE