There is a man a few tables away that has caught my attention. He is a flagrant violation of fashion, a delicate fusion of goth and businessman. Did I say delicate? When I say goth I mean the type of goth that is borderline punk rocker., not that I'm any expert in goth classification. His hair is a bizarre blow dried mop, half bouffant, half lemming, half Boris Johnson. Maybe I should have used thirds.
He is clad in a smart black suit, black shirt and black tie, relaxing in the lethargy of a lunchtime pint, apparently oblivious to the seismic upheaval going on in my mind. Stoical, a vacant face, eyes masked by huge dark sunglasses (you're indoors you idiot), he carries a dignified air but also looks little uncomfortable, probably because his clothes are SO DAMN TIGHT!
A stick insect would have struggled to fit into those trousers, his shirt is so stretched he nearly poked a passing diner in the eye with a nipple, his tie is so thin that a spider would have used it in his web, the knot of his tie is the size of a stunted pea, his shoes are so pointed that a jester would have mocked them.
I'd better stop, he's looking this way suspiciously and appears to be muttering, probably along the lines of I wish that damn knigget with a laptop would stop scrutinising me. He's not one of you guys is he?
A Little Girl Feeding Some Baby Crocodiles, 1932
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