I love the wind whipping up the salty ether of the Cumbrian coast It must look as though I am a thief, or at the very least up to no good. You see, I can no longer expose my lower face to the streets of London. When I was younger, and Converse soles beat city streets, I’d hop from bar to bar exposing many things: legs, torso, an adolescent need for acceptance, a too-high tolerance for alcohol. Now, walking on city pavements, it feels as though I have put an exhaust pipe in my mouth and sucked hard, like the final cigarette I had. I have gone from mocking tourists who wear masks – looking as though they are about to embark on vigorous floorboard sanding – to browsing shops for similar.
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