December 29th, 2003

end of a decade

eaten, drunk and merried

The Golden Age of Fashion - Calendar 2003With the end of the year, a few projects come to fruit. Here's the first of them -- The Golden Age of Fashion Calendar 2003, on which I have been recording my own clothes in those little squares you're supposed to write important dates in, or mark off with a cross. Here, there's one from each filled-in month; from new year Matrix-y black and leathers, through springtime scruff and unseasonal warmth to midsummer madness, the miserable oven of July, outdoor Shakespeare tomfoolery, through the great September purge of my wardrobe (RIP colourful trousers, stained Keith Haring t-shirt) and the hottest October on record to natural colours and midlength coats for wandering the (oxford)shire and flannel pyjamas and cosy cardigans for the endless sorting of stuff. There's 2003 -- my favourites from the real days (the imaginary days may follow).
  • Current Mood
    christmas recovery
foryoureyesonly

to the man who's busking French songs in the underpass at the corner of New and Queen Street

Give it up, mate, give it up. Can't you smell the industrial disinfectant you're sitting on? They put it down to wash away the piss of men who can't get into the steel toilets opposite because they're full of junkies, desperately looking for veins in the blue light the council put in there to stop them happening. Can't you smell it over the exhaust-fume fug, the sticky black pollutant sweat of the pavement, piss of tramps and underage drinkers, smeared on the cracked blue mosaic wall, colour of obsolete improvements, pale under dirt-encrusted lights, scrapes of half-removed graffiti? Come on, give it up, it's a miserable day. And who's going to be coming this way, except filing-bound council workers without no holiday left, bus-bound shoppers with sale-shredded fingers, pissed-off people who mistook this for a short-cut to the multi-storey? And don't you know no-one gives to buskers in Oxford anyway? Give it up, love, give it up. This isn't shelter, it's a cracked urinal where no-one stays to listen or stops to give. Give it up, give it up, go home ... and wash your trousers really, really well.
  • Current Mood
    bored bored