Ten

Hello Russell, Hello Bromley

My soul is crushed when I see photos of you in desert boots and tweed jackets, who are you this week, I ponder as I grimace at that cream jumper you wear, only because I have it.

Girls who look like Topshop chewed them up and spat them out. Who smell like biscuits and have funny leggings that look like petrol seeping over skin.

I want to take you home, bath you and scrub you down, hand you a pair of brogues and a nice chunky jumper with some tights and a pendant then kick you out the door.

Today as I walked into CommonRoomThree, the look on S's face made me want to cry.

"what are you wearing?" They say. To be perfectly honest with you, I felt my combination of loafers and decrepit old briefcase was working, clearly not for S. Looking down at myself I shrug "Stuff."

Bag down on chair, they pick it up, feel the leather soft and peeling in their hands.

"Clara, you're like a walking antique"

ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha