Like shoes, jackets and coats are my vice. The other day, I counted my collection and realised I own fourteen. I’m a little embarrassed actually, that’s an unnecessary amount of outerwear. I have nearly as many coats as I have shoes! In my defence, living in England you need to be prepared for all the dreary, unpredictable weather it throws your way. You need your proper, big-boy winter jackets. I’m talking jackets for moments in the snow and on days the temperature never breaks above low single digits. Then you need your late autumn, ‘it’s getting pretty nippy’ jacket, warm enough, but won’t keep you to hot when the temperature of the day unreasonably reaches the high teens. Then of course, your spring jackets, spring-day time, spring-evening when the warm sun of early April makes a fool of you and you forget that once it sets, it gets absolutely freezing again. Then there are your summer jackets for the rain you will most definitely get caught in throughout the meagre summer months. Suffice to say, you need a couple of jackets. Perhaps I’ve taken this weather preparedness thing too far though, I can admit I have a problem when it comes to coats.
In my defence, many of the jackets I own I have had for years, and I take pride in looking after my things so that they last. If someone asked, I could probably present a historical timeline of when I bought each jacket. Black velour puffer (now rendered my humble gym coat) was one of the first things I bought for myself when I went to university at 18, my prized black Afghan/Penny Lane coat was the first Vinted purchase I made back in 2021, and only cost me 25 quid (it’s my main big-boy winter coat till this day). My vintage red Ralph Lauren jacket with gold detailing, probably my all-time favourite thrift (I love you Peckham Carboot!). Don’t get me started on my brown leather trench coat! Then, I admit, there were some unnecessary purchases along the way, the brown leather blazer from Urban Outfitters two months ago (I just missed the silhouette of a blazer jacket), my Barbie pink trench jacket that I bought two summers ago and wore twice (currently on my Vinted if you’re interested, wink wink). It’s not to say these are bad jackets, they’re darling, but just that the consumerist urge kind of won in these shopping scenarios.
All this to say, I indeed bought another jacket. I just couldn’t help it; I saw the jacket, I saw the sale, and I knew it had to be mine. The cream, two-tone fur of my dreams. For years I have wanted a longline white fur coat. Strange, because I’m very opposed to owning light coloured jackets, just due to their stark impracticality, similar to that of white trainers. The fear you have wearing them as you realise everything you encounter in the every day is a potential stainer. But there’s just something about a big white fur that changes my stance on light coloured clothes. It’s worth the high maintenance and extra measures of care. I still remember a day out to Oxford Street with my mum, aged 19, when the Topshop flagship store was still standing and their was a DJ booth by the door. We took our time and browsed each section before, simultaneously, our eyes fell upon a longline white shaggy fur that finished at the ankles. We try one on each immediately, gasping at the feel. We take selfies in the mirror then sigh at the £110 price tag, placing the jackets back on their respective hangers.
So, can you blame a girl, all these years later, her thirst for a long white fur coat never truly quenched, to break her promise of no more coats and surrender! It was settled, the coat was added to my basket, and I eagerly awaited its arrival. Once it came, it was time to plan its debut. After my Sunday plans fell through due to poor planning of obtaining exhibition tickets, I knew I still wanted to go out so I could wear my new coat that’s been sitting on a hanger the past week. Me and my friend decide to go to Trisha’s in Soho, our favourite place in central London for a drink and a natter. Dubbed the “the naughty little boy of Soho”, I always describe it as the closest to a Peckham night out you’ll find up West End. A safe place from the general lacklustre of mainstream nightclubs and Simmons bars dotted across West End. There’s live music, cheap drinks, old timey deco, and an eclectic mix of regulars, what’s not to love.
Oh, I’ve had some great conversations in that smoking area. Despite not being a smoker but surrounding myself with friends who all smoke or vape, I’m usually standing pointlessly with my drink in hand as people forge for lighters and bump cigarettes from each other. However, I always find they make the best place for conversation, so I’m no longer self-conscious about my idle hand that remains without cigarette or Lost Mary and lose myself in conversation with strangers. There’s been love life heart-to-hearts, cooing over photos of one another’s cats, general ‘so what do you do’ chat and of course, ‘how long have you been coming to Trisha’s’. Yesterday, when a fellow smoking area dweller, who herself lived in Soho asked me where I lived and I replied south London, she grimaced, almost theatrically. “No one goes there” she laughed, looking to her American tourist friend, to which he smiled awkwardly. “Well, I’m staying in Kensington”, he offered. I replied “technically that’s southwest” with a smile, before asserting south is undeniably the capital of London. He laughed and nodded. That was my last conversation with Ms Soho. My most enjoyable was probably with a guy who was a philosophy PhD student whose thesis, if I remember correctly (I was a few spiced rum and coke’s in), pertained to the ethical dilemma of AI consciousness. He went to UCL, I told him I did my MA at Goldsmiths, and he grinned, enthusing it was the coolest of the Universities of London. It is art hoe paradise.
On my way to meet my friend, walking through Victoria underground station, I couldn’t help but feel great. I was reminded again of the transformative powers (no I’m not being hyperbolic) of wearing a gorgeous coat, particularly for the first time. I had on my new white fur, my white mesh mock neck top with black bow detailing, dark denim flared jeans and black pointed flats with chunky buckles. Accompanied by gold bangles, chunky gold hoops, a cherry red shoulder bag, miscellaneous rings and baby pink nail polish I painted on in a hurry. I exited Green Park station and met my friend, her too in a gorgeous jacket, a rusty brown with a huge brown fur collar. We all but strutted down Piccadilly, taking a detour through Bond Street to look at the pretty Christmas light fixtures before arriving at our designated place for the night. “Where have you lovely ladies come from” chimed the manager as we signed in downstairs, “nowhere!” we answered, feeling luxe in our extravagant jackets. Ahh girlhood. I took off my coat and left it in the locked cloakroom, ‘be safe’ I thought in my head, the threat of red wine spillage or beer splatter scenarios that were playing in my head now eradicated. My jacket would remain spick and span, what was I even worrying about!
On my voyage
What happened during the latter part of that night can only be described as the most extreme obstacle course for stains a new jacket could endure. Around 1am, a few hours of drinks passing us by, I could tell we would have to call it a night soon. We were dancing to 60s soul music, doing the twist and feeling silly. I thought, okay, some water, some McDonald’s and she’ll get most of her motor abilities back, at least enough to get us in an Uber home. This was not the case. Coming back from the bathroom she grabbed my arms for balance and pleaded “get me home”. Shit, I thought, she’s more drunk then I realised. Far too many tequilas, on the rocks may I add, I don’t know how she does it. Though I suppose this is why you don’t. I asked if she just vomited to which she defeatedly nods. Poor thing, get her home I shall.
As I gather our things and put on my jacket, she sits down on the steps. I tap her to get up and give her some water, to which I find she has completely blacked out. I’d experienced dealing with awfully drunk friends plenty of times, wobbly knees, vomiting, the sorts, but completely unresponsive, that was new, and scary. Plenty of vomiting, regaining and then losing consciousness, a paramedic, and a jarring, unhelpful, and aggressive medical student later, we’re sitting in an ambulance on our way to A&E. “You’ve got to be careful of that jacket” asserted the paramedic as he strapped my friend in the seat, vomit encasing her jeans. I offered a sad smile. He handed me some rubber gloves.
A few hours spent in St Thomas and with the OK from the nurse to go home (if anything she practically threw us out, saying my friend just needed to rest and sober up, so they needed their bed back), we were in the hospital waiting room waiting for our cab. It was of course the least of my concerns by the end of the night, but luckily, and against all odds, it remained vomit-free. “Your coat” she whimpers, shivering, her head nestled on my lap. “Don’t worry about it my love”.
Queencoc0 Talks 
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