There is this grotesque quintessence of op-shopping that fascinates. The unknown origin, the faceless previous owner; whom one-day strolls past and recognises this or that, dress or coat. That distinct odour, an uncomfortable mix of detergent and dust. The awkward vintage not enough aged, not yet aesthetically-ripe. The tasteless homage to the Mona Lisa on a hand-embroided, dead-skinned, polyester jacket.

I was so repulsed that I almost bought it. 

On an unrelated and regretably egocentric note; I am low. It's a cocktail of rejection, albiet self-inflated, and the stumbling upon a friend-of-a-friend's success. I've decided that I'd like to be mildly famous. I quite liked reading my name in jet-colour school bulletins. I'm going to find the adult equivalent.