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I wasn’t really lying when I told the lady at Selfridges this perfume was a gift. After all, to smell it is to recall another time, a different place, a feeling. It’s nice to feel as though you’re being given something, even if it was yours to begin with.

I’m not going to be around much over the next two weeks but when I’m back I’ll have things to share, news and photos but probably mostly my feelings.

I have a new route to work now. On an overground train that passes parks and houses and a school, that passes other trains. On which I stand closely to strangers for about eight minutes, never more than 10. Sometimes our hands touch as the train lurches and one of us reaches for something to hold on to. Other times I accidentally make eye contact with the done-up blonde or the two men in suits, at least one of whom must feel choked by his tie, the other choked by expectation, regret, any of life’s other nooses.

Often I imagine what it feels like to be the wives of the men wearing wedding rings, to be the children of the mothers who can talk about nothing but them, to be the done-up blonde with everything so perfect and smooth and I wonder how many people ever get to be the version of themselves they wished they could become.

Just Patti Smith

As Bob Dylan.

[image credit unknown]

Dreamin’ wild.

A week and a half ago I moved house; out of De Beauvoir Town and into Hackney proper. It’s funny what a difference a mile makes.

Clerkenwell, London.


Tarik and I took a tour around Battersea Dog and Cats Home. We met a husky called Colleen and a cat called Veronica. We both decided it would be impossible to love a dog called Mario. We drank daiquiris, got caught in the rain.

Self portrait, Menton.