February 26, 2018
March 15, 2018
February 22, 2018
No-one is who they say they are.
I slumped into the rumbling backseat of the N159 as it roared and puttered towards Brixton and my little flat. The top two buttons were missing from my shirt and the younger guy in a SuperDry jacket three seats up kept turning to stare at me, as if to say, go on, you can hit on me any time, it’s really not a problem.
I continued to decline this unspoken invitation, instead preferring to sink back into a fug of self-pity, all against the background of a nascent headache that had first started to pry its way into my brain somewhere around Trafalgar Square. In the window, my reflection blinked back at me, my smeared mascara making me look like a moody panda who’s made poor life choices.
Around me the bus was full of the usual late night detritus of London – drunk girls in tiny clothes, tight-trousered hipsters, weary workers on unsociable hours making their way home, nodding asleep in their seats. The unsympathetic lighting played over us all, making our skin look like meat in a butcher’s shop window.
I felt sober and exhausted and oddly hollow.
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