A provicial shopkeeper about to drug you so the townspeople can lock you in a wicker man

I was on the tube with that guy smoking crack and it was fine.

Rubber stamps are a commitment—a refusal to amend or postscript. We are, as a society, too dependent on ephemeral tech, backspacing our mistakes, deleting our failing posts. If I learned anything from Terminator Two: Judgement Day, it’s that nothing good comes from a reliance on machines. Sometimes I just want to go back, if not to medieval times, then to simpler, less computer times. Back to drinking cosmos as a sign of genuine class. Back to seeing the Hoxton fin on our streets. Back to typing #chav into tumblr.

I can get a bit evangelical about patterns and I face a blizzard of jazzy shirts every time I open my wardrobe. I’ve evolved from pretty tessellations to real things—pictures over ambient shapes. This flame dress looks kinda mean? It started a bar fight for a bet. It met Lana del Rey in a pool hall and gave her a backie across middle America. Despite the greaser roadtrip connotations, I don’t think the dress is cheap. Theresa May shook the magic money tree and this dress fell from its branches.

We all lose our charms in the end, except for David Hockney. Hockney exudes the kind of tough love you get from people who muck out horses. He seems both fastidious and completely out of fucks (the exact balance you go to therapy for). Hockney is a living reminder that vaping is for clowns. Free yourself from the cop inside your mind and buy twenty Camels.

These avocado flesh bedsheets and avocado stone pillows are sold out and I’m jealous of the woman nestled in their folds (I blocked her to avoid further duress). But no matter how you drifted off—spine crumpled like a cashew, spinning from your fifteenth Campari and soda, your ankle monitor digging into your leg—you’d wake up jolly in these sheets.

Alongside a lot of borrowed-looking trousers, my Prada eBay search has yielded this torso carapace, a jitterbug of patchwork panels. Something about it is quite folk horror, like I’m a provicial shopkeeper about to drug you so the townspeople can lock you in a wicker man to appease our made-up god. Sometimes I want to dress like a terraforming planet, sometimes I want to dress like what your eyes see on the verge of an aneurism, sometimes I want to dress like and ice cream everyone wants to lick.