somewhere between

Between Camden Town and Angel, or somewhere thereabouts, there exists another dragon. This deafening spectre dulls all senses, a suspension in time where I hold my breath. Today i’m grateful for its grating roar, that searing moment obliterating all conversation, all thought. The tube rattles and grinds through the dragon’s hiss and the intrusive party of five or so next to me are themselves obliterated. I embrace the dragon, for the first time not holding and covering my ears. Bright blue eyes decked in black, this girl, why is she shouting so? She is as if amplified, her babbling, exclaiming companions falling like dominoes beside her. ‘Loz’s hen night ain’t far away!’. Kings Cross, my stop, a swift switch to the Piccadilly line yet off the tube they drip, that troublesome amplified tribe. I am my own tribe, my own spirit and my space has been impinged upon. That voice, that needlepoint. I dodge every platform shadow in a slow, vain escape, I hobble over those blind bits on the platform edge. My senses are attuned to a burning heat, every indication of movement, expression, gesture is loud. Sounds are so LOUD. Why is everything loud. Can’t we all hush a bit? Ahead of me on the escalator, a girl passes in flashing shoes. I gaze past shoulders to catch a glimpse. Just a dull shade of gold, light catching my imagination. I love clothes with a passion. I feel them, sense them, want to drown myself in silk and velvet. I love how they hang, their grace and power, their potential to create art on the body. The body is an artwork, an eternal canvas. On my way to and from GF’s ‘Wellness Clinic’ i wander amongst fabrics, floating constellations on Harrods hangers. I dont believe in the price tags and the detrimental consequence of buying new things, although I am as much to blame as anyone. Yet I am entranced, captured by these things of beauty. Why on earth must GF have his clinic in Harrods, amongst the hidden depths of women’s clothing, Floor 4? I am hypnotised, mesmorised, these hanging garments sent from the stars. Arabian princesses glide by, their perfect faces indifferent to the dazzle. Stockholm had great vintage shops, my favourites not far from where I used to live. The best are those that catch your breath on entering, that immediate transportation into a world undefined. Whispers of bygone times, cocktail parties to dream of. Tarnished mirrors and forgotten smiles. I want to bury myself in this sensation. Yet somehow those glitzy corners of Floor 4 surpass any vintage world. There, the past and the present are combined, a faint smoke drifts from the future. Utter haute couture and it is beautiful. GF advises me on my diet, a pre-op attempt at becoming healthy. Dark chocolate is on the list, good. He smiles and hugs me, that all-encompassing reassurement that I crave between every session. ‘You’re gonna be fine’ he smiles in his lilting brazilian accent. Outside, close to home, the trees hiss too. Except their leaves are gentle, their expression is with intent. The breeze dictates our movement, the branches our step. Nothing is too loud amongst the trees.