Fake addresses

I used to pal around with this kid from Central St Martins that hung around the skate park, stalked foxes (the British equivalent of raccoons) and never had a cell phone because he was the most broke person I've known since my own arrival to the City.

We would lurk around Hampstead Heath on Thursday nights eating Sainsbury's pies and buying matches for underage smokers and sit in Tower Hamlet council estates until sunrise.

The last time I spoke to him, I had returned from a week in Barcelona to find our resident mouse dead on my duvet. It had climbed into one of the perspex boxes that I used to sort my makeup and expired in a pile of Bourjois blush and cuticle oil. My impoverished pal would have come to Settles Street to stuff it and wear it as a trophy if I had given him my address, but in the end I put the transparent coffin and the bed sheets in the trash outside and said a little prayer for the rodent's family.

He painted me on a mirror and swore he would break it before it was finished. I can't tell if I'm offended or honoured and I feel a little arrogant putting it online.



Source: Oszar (UK)