The week before last was definitively a bad week. I started my week attending a funeral and my mid-week was defined by a disastrous ambush by an ex friend. I felt emotionally raw and, coupled with my overtime at work, exhausted in every sense of the word. I can’t help but feel like I’m in state of loss at the moment. I suppose that is a natural cycle of life, sometimes we go through periods of death, so to speak. Perhaps a shedding of sorts was due in order to be where I need to be now, or later on in the future. Certain events have unfolded in order to align me to my grand path. Or maybe, things are just a little shit. I’ve never really resonated with the phrase ‘everything happens for a reason’ and if anything, I find it offensive.
My absence from here can be explained by the events of two weeks ago, but more accurately, because of a lack of inspiration. Outside of personal affairs, after a long day at work (which I’ve had a lot of this month so far), I typically retire to my bedroom, get ready for bed at roughly 7pm and snuggle up under my protective covers, aiming to finally finish my copy of this month’s Vogue that I’ve been reading in snippets since it arrived in the post. Outside of reading, this doesn’t make for much writing inspiration. The week before last I think I watched more of The Sopranos then I did engage in conversation outside of work.
The Sunday, however, was an objectively good day. I got up early, picked an outfit, (assembling new pieces), got ready and headed down to Peckham Carboot with a friend. I’ve been going to this car boot since I first heard of it word-of-mouth from a colleague of one of my mates. We were drinking at the pub she worked at when he told us of his plans to go in the morning. We nodded and promised we would also go, until suddenly the night arrived at 2am and we knew we weren’t setting early morning alarms once we made it home. I ended up making my way down there about a month or so later, early autumn of 2021, and I try to get down there as often as I can ever since.
My favourite tote bag, Brick Lane Bookshop (and perfect for thrifting). Jacket, Bershka
It is honestly great, a real-life answer to Vinted, and it had been months since I had gone due to work. A Moschino jumper, a 50p bangle, and a vintage Roberto Cavalli top later, I felt the joys of a successful thrift buzz around me. This is just what I needed after the week I had. Making one last loop across the packed carpark, pointing out parts of people’s outfits we loved, me and my friend sifted through clothes rails and clothes bins, held up folded t-shirts on top of blankets on the ground, quietly whispering our maximum price we’d pay for each respective item. We politely walked away from much-too-high asking prices whilst giving each other disapproving looks. “This isn’t Depop” we’d say under our breath, outraged at someone selling a basic print top for £15. We pass a rail with a poster that states proceeds of each sale go to charity when I notice a cute baby pink top. “Chloe, it goes to charity, come on”, my friend pleaded in attempts to make me purchase, I think mostly so she felt less guilt about how much she had bought (and spent) but also, because it was a very cute tee. Baby pink, vintage Guess Jeans, ‘these are real’ blazoned on the front in a bold white font. The seller said she loved it because for her and her petite frame, it was ironic. “Except for her, it won’t be” explained my friend as I held it over me in front of a standing mirror to gauge if it would fit. We all laughed. Big boobs, what can I say.
We head to the local Wetherspoons for a post retail therapy meal and explain how excited we are to style our new pieces. “I can’t let my mum know how much I’ve spent” my friend explains over her chicken wings, making us feel as though we were suddenly teens again and have supposedly taken it a little too far on our shopping trip to Westfield. “Think of it as buying your winter wardrobe, it’s a new season after all” I reason, despite the fact that half the tops she thrifted were sleeveless and/or ending midriff. We discuss how, really, we have actually saved money because if we bought this all retail, the cost would be up in the hundreds. We are simply being economical! In my defence, I’d only spent about thirty quid.
As Wetherspoons is characteristically filled with them, it wasn’t long before a strange and somewhat drunk man strikes up conversation with us. He asks if we’re dating before excitingly revealing to us (or rather me) that he is in fact with a Black woman. “Once you go Black you never go back” he says with an impudent grin. Me and my friend look at each other, and I can’t contain my amusement. “Yep, my missus is Jamaican” he says, unprompted. He hovers over our table frantically scrolling through his phone before revealing a picture of him and his wife. She is gorgeous and alarming a lot younger than him. Not in a concerning age-gap way, but more in a ‘he’s either aged very badly or she’s at least a decade younger’ sort of way. Me and my friend both react in astonishment, and he smiles again, “Black don’t crack” he shouts, his mind seemingly full of race-related idioms. Later, my friend suggests that the woman in question wasn’t even his wife, instead most likely a random woman he saw at another pub and asked to take a selfie with, before frankly stating “why would a well put together Jamaican woman be with him?”. I decide on a separate narrative. Maybe they were childhood sweethearts, I reason. But then his drinking got bad, and with the kids and the house, she felt like she couldn’t leave. Trapped. She laughs at my ridiculousness. What is life without speculation and curiosity?
My love!
Last week, things were on the up. That sounds ominous, like they have now declined again, which isn’t the case! However, compared to the previous week, last week was a vast improvement. Despite catching a cold towards the end of it (which I’m still nursing), and work still sucking up most of my hours, things feel a little better, and I feel better in myself. Friday night over extortionately priced (but equally delicious) cocktails in dainty glasses, nestled between Piccadilly and Mayfair, we discuss our week thus far. My friends colleague describes how she was called a ‘classist thot’ by a member of the film crew who were hiring out a restaurant she works in. I have to give him some props for creativity. A thot revival into Gen Z lexicon perhaps? Credit where credits due. Ahh, the perils of working in the service industry. You are constantly exposed to the egos of fragile men. I suppose it’s not just a male thing, any gender can be wicked.
You know I love a mirror selfie. Top, Noisy May, puffball skirt, Stradivarius, pink satin heels, RAID, leopard print tights, Primark, brown trench coat, Bershka, bangles, thrifted.
It was fun to socialise, to put on a pair of heels (so rare for me, but I’m coming to love them) and doll up for the night. It felt very Samantha Jones, making my way across the city for an opening night event of a new bar (Odyssey in Hoxton, absolutely gorgeous) before darting off again to another part of the wide-awake city, heels clacking. I cashed in my free chicken nuggets monopoly ticket at McDonalds, bought a bottle of water for the journey home, and called it a night. On the bus home, without headphones (they broke about two weeks ago, period of loss…), I reflected on the night, and also on my week. I counted all of the little wins and joys I’d experienced along the backdrop of bigger, personal affairs. Dinner with my Dad, getting him to do the MBTI personality test (he’s an ENTP/Debater, makes total sense that he is my father), voice note exchanges with my close friends, physical touch, a catch up with my favourite work colleague, and laughing till my cheeks hurt. I think back to a quote from one of my favourite books, Sorrow and Bliss by Meg Mason: “everything is broken and messed up, and completely fine. That is what life is. It’s only the ratios that change, usually on their own. As soon you think that’s it, it’s going to be like this forever, they change again”.
Queencoc0 Talks 
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