Sunday bloody Sunday. Still half asleep I stumble and re-stub my toe this morning on the corner of my desk. The red splodges on the carpet will be there for many years to come. I bandage up my feet the best I can and jam them into gold Karim Rashid for Melissa works of art that up until now have taken pride of place in the centre of my bookshelf, unworn. The shoes are a statement in themselves, so the rest of my outfit is simple, and simple to choose: black cigarette trousers, fake Chanel T, flannelette check farmer shirt and a tuxedo jacket.
I join a friend for a mad jaunt across town in search of pearl tea – a mysterious Asian concoction of flavoured milk, tea, tapioca pearls, and garnishes of sugary syrup. It is textural heaven. The rest of my day takes me through the Cuba/Newtown districts, where I manage to meld in successfully with the bohemians, and in comparison feel comfortably conservative…
A boozy picnic in the park follows, and I am thankful that I didn’t choose stilettos today; the thought of sinking into the ground at every step terrifies me. I imagine getting stuck and never making it out of the park, condemned to be frozen forever like a Greek statue, to be shat on by pigeons and grow lichen on my nose until I finally crumble away to dust. As it happens I make my way home safely bundled in the back of a Green Cab, and climb into bed with an environmental do-gooder grin plastered upon my face.