#Cheap Built in Wardrobes London

[bragtechads]

Walk in wardrobes London with out doors and are becoming the most popular customer choice with our new range of bespoke tailored made designs.

[clarajackson183]

Where can I find cheap built-in wardrobes in London? All these questions go through a person’s head.

[mcwriting]

Live from New York, it’s Saturday Night!

In which the reader is the musical guest at Saturday Night Live the same week Tom Holland is hosting.

Ship: Reader x Tom Holland

Word Count: 5747 (what in the heck?? my longest piece ever lol)

Warnings: Mild alcohol consumption

Rating: K

Preface: I mention the NBC page program, which is like an intense internship/fellowship with the company where college grads work with at least 3 parts of the company over a year to get job exposure. A lot of famous actors and actresses were pages!

***

Walking into 30 Rockefeller Center on Wednesday afternoon was a surreal experience for sure. As a young NBC page led you through hallways and up to studio 8H, you were getting butterflies.

On one side of the hall was a sign for studio 8G, which hosted Late Night with Seth Meyers, but the page turned the other way, guiding you through doors to the Saturday Night Live studio.

There was hustle and bustle all around you as she took you to your green room, which had a sign printed with your name on it over an NYC skyline. You almost pinched yourself.

You had known for about a month that you’d be performing as the musical guest for SNL the upcoming weekend, but now that you were here for your first rehearsal, things were getting real. 

When your manager had asked if you wanted to play the show, she’d been met by your enthusiastic “YES! Are you kidding me?!” It was even better when she mentioned who the host would be:

Tom Holland.

You’d watched every season of SNL since you were probably in middle school. You could easily name off every cast member but would have to remember to keep your cool until after Saturday.

Another thing you’d need to stay cool about was Spiderman himself. You had the biggest crush on him, but who your age didn’t? He was charming and British, disregarding physical features. You were most nervous to meet him. 

The page let you put your things down and took you to Lorne Michael’s office where he and some of the production team wanted to talk to you about your set. You’d only get two songs, but one of the writers also asked if you’d want to be in a couple sketches, too.

Later that evening would be the normal pitch meeting, where writers who’d spent all Tuesday afternoon and night into the early hours of Wednesday writing finally got to show the host and cast their ideas. They’d narrow it down to eight, so you were surprised they wanted you in not one, but two sketches.

It wasn’t difficult to say yes to that. You wouldn’t be present for the pitch meeting, however, because in just a few short hours you’d be heading down to studio 6B to film a segment for Jimmy Fallon’s show. 

Your management team stayed behind at the hotel to work on details for a couple concerts you had and were planning to head up to the studio before your interview.

After the meeting, you were shown around to familiarize yourself with the studio and stage before starting your first rehearsal. For one song, it would be just you and a piano, but the other song would have a band playing while you sang and did some limited choreography. 

You sat in front of the keys of a beautiful grand piano, stretching your fingers. Someone requested you play one of your songs, so you looked around, as if asking for permission. Everyone in the room nodded for you to play, so you began the tune of your favorite song from your album.

Your voice wasn’t warm and there wasn’t a mic on you, but you got lost in the lyrics and chords like you always did. By the song’s end, you’d drawn a small crowd. They clapped and you blushed when you finished, closing the lid and standing to do a sheepish curtsy. 

Most of the small crowd dissipated and you were talking to some crew about stage setup when someone interrupted you.

“Sorry to bother, but that was incredible. Can’t wait to hear how good you’ll be this weekend,” said a male voice with a distinct London accent. You turned to find Tom Holland right in front of you. 

“Oh, well, thank you! I- I uh, didn’t expect to meet you so soon,” you stuttered, thrusting out a hand. “Y/n y/l/n.”

He gripped your hand firmly and shook it, nodding his head once, too.

“Tom Holland. You know I was excited when I heard you’d be performing the same week I host. The last film I did, we listened to your music like, all the time. You could say I’m a fan.”

Was this real? Tom Holland was a fan of you!? You chuckled.

“I could definitely say the same for you. I love your movies. ‘Been a fan for years.”

You both smiled happily and Tom was about to respond when the page who’d been showing you around the whole time came up.

“Sorry to interrupt, but Miss y/l/n, they’ve asked to get your measurements in costuming if that’s okay.”

“Oh! Yes of course!” you said to her, then turned to Tom. “Sorry. It was nice meeting you! See you around?”

“Of course! Nice meeting you also!”

As the young girl led you away again, you missed where a younger brother of Tom said to him,

“Think you’re in love yet?”

***

After an eventful visit at the Tonight Show that included you and Jimmy playing box of lies and performing one of your songs for the audience, you headed back up to 8H alone. 

You’d remembered leaving something in your dressing room and had let your team go on back to the hotel without you. You’d felt confident that you could sneak back to your hotel safely without causing a big ruckus. It was only a few blocks away.

You were digging in your bag for your phone when you bumped into someone. Each of you said a quick “oh, sorry!” before looking to see who the other was.

It was Tom again.

You hadn’t realized before, but his room was the one right next to yours. It made sense, both of you being guests and all, but you were still caught off guard. 

“Headed out?” he asked. You felt yourself blushing a little.

“Yeah, well. I just finished at Fallon’s and they don’t need me back here until tomorrow so I’m heading back to my hotel to order pizza for my whole team and then crash,” you laughed. 

“Oh yeah? That sounds about like what we’re doing,” Tom gestured back to his brother and best friend, who you shook hands with gladly. 

You talked as you wound through the halls and quickly realized you were all staying at the same place.

“That’s crazy! We were just going to get a cab if you want to just come with us. I’m already paying for it, so...” he offered. You were surprised.

“What? No, no, I couldn’t just ride on your coattails like that,” you started.

“No seriously, y/n. It’s fine! We’re literally all going to the same place and no one can bother us from a taxi cab. You don’t even have to talk to us if you don’t want to.”

You looked at the other two boys questioningly and they nodded, encouragingly nodding for you to accept the offer. 

“Okay, okay! If all of you are fine with it, I’ll come.”

They cheered and you continued in happy conversation as you headed downstairs. A doorman called a cab for you and you piled in. Harry took the front and you offered to take the middle, sandwiched between Harrison and Tom.

Never in a million years had you expected to be in such close proximity to one, much less all, of them. It was a short drive and the driver took you to a back entrance, the place celebrities usually entered.

You still weren’t quite used to the star life. Up until you’d hit it big, it was normal for you to do pretty much everything yourself and stay in relatively cheap hotels like any other person.

Now, your management team handled most things and you were staying in five star places with secret celebrity entrances and prices that would probably make your grandmother faint.

Inside, you’d also realized you were on the same floor, both of you staying in large suites used by many elites over the years. You parted ways, anticipating seeing each other in the morning for rehearsals and later that evening when you’d be doing Seth Meyers’ show together.

***

The studio was buzzing when you entered Thursday morning. Your small team headed straight for the dressing room as you were taken away to a sketch read. Both sketches the writers had asked you about had been greenlit, so you were excited to work on them

“Morning, y/n. How was the pizza?” Tom asked cheekily when you first walked in. A couple of people passing by gave strange looks but said nothing.

“Well, who doesn’t love a good New York slice, huh? I’d say it was pretty darn good. And you?”

“We ended up getting room service, but pizza’s definitely next on my list,” he joked before you were handed scripts and asked to review them. The writers and cast were trying to figure out some basic spacing as you looked over your lines and cues.

You finally got to work rehearsing the two sketches. You broke a couple times when Kate landed a punchline and when Beck accidentally tripped. 

When they decided to move on from those, you where whisked away to wardrobe and makeup to shoot "bumper” stills and videos, the photos and clips between sketches and commercial breaks. 

You were excited to see how they envisioned your style and personality and would bring it to life. The photographer collaborated with you and shot some really incredible photos, both serious and goofy.

Next you were back in music rehearsals figuring out more about the staging and running some diagnostic sound checks. Once lunchtime came around, your stomach was growling.

You just barely caught Tom as you went for lunch, he was finishing up as you built your plate. As it always seemed, you only got a few words in with each other before someone was dragging Tom off for his own photoshoot.

You got to talk to Harry and Harrison for a little bit, too, until your manager asked to have a quick meeting about your schedule. Once you were free, you were taken to costuming to try a few things on and figure out hair styles that would fit the show.

There were more music rehearsals and you read the new scripts (as they had already been rewritten twice now). You were pretty tired by the time someone asked you to head across the hall to prepare for Late Night.

You grabbed a quick bite to eat on your way out of 8H and finished is by the time you were in the doors of 8G and a page led you to your green room, once again located next to Tom’s. 

Since you were both doing SNL together, you and Tom were going to be interviewed together, but you also had the added bonus of being the musical guest again. 

You only needed to rehearse a couple times to get the sound down (it’s not like it’s live, so you could easily restart if something went wrong). Once you were finished, they brought in the studio audience and you got a chance to go back to your green room and chill for a little while. 

Seth had a couple other guests, so while you were waiting, you knocked on Tom’s door to greet him and discuss the talking points each of your management had given Seth.

As the in-house band was warming up, Seth came into the room.

“Well I didn’t expect to see both of you in here,” he joked, shaking both of you hands. Tom had been on the show before, but this was your first time meeting the host. 

After a couple minutes, Seth was informed of the time and made his leave, going out to meet his audience and begin taping. After his monologue and the first guest, you and Tom were called to the stage.

“Now for our nexts guests we have both the host and musical guest of this weekend’s Saturday Night Live, Tom Holland and y/n y/l/n! Come on out here!”

Tom gestured for you to go ahead of him, so you walked out, waving to the cheering crowd. You took the seat nearest to Seth’s desk. 

“Well hello, there. Good to see you two,” he greeted as you settled in. “Welcome back, Tom, and welcome for the first time, y/n.”

“Wait this is your first time here?” Tom asked incredulously. You laughed.

“Yeah! Up until a few months ago like, no one knew who I was. Not even Seth!” you poked right back. Seth jokingly agreed. 

The interview went well, both of you telling some funny stories and explaining how the week was going. Finally, you cut for a commercial.

“Alright we’ll return with y/n and Tom after this short break!”

You were right back to the interview after the commercial “break.” Towards the end of it, you all got off on the subject of alcohol.

“You are 21, right?” Tom asked you. You rolled your eyes and gave an exaggerated hair flip.

“Yes, I am of the legal age. You should know as well as anyone what it’s like to have a baby face,” you roasted, causing the audience to go “ohh!” and Tom and Seth to raise their eyebrows.

“Wow looks like we’ve got a little rivalry now. The real question is who can handle their alcohol better. I think we oughta bring you two back for my day drinking segment to settle this!”

Both of you overconfidently pointed at yourselves when Seth asked who was better with alcohol.

“Now that’s an idea I can get behind!” you exclaimed before the interview finally wrapped up and you got ready to go sing. Tom and Seth stayed at the desk while you performed, which thankfully only took one shot.

As you wrapped up the show, you gave final waves to the audience and then headed offstage. You and Tom walked through the halls together and Seth caught up with you after finishing his outro.

He thanked you both for being on the show, you took a few pictures, then talked for a while. Seth was eventually called away to look at something, so you said your goodbyes to him and continued towards the green rooms.

“You were great tonight. Your voice is phenomenal,” Tom said to you. “and honestly I can’t believe you haven’t been doing talkshows that long. You’re a natural.”

“I think it has a lot to do with the fact that I love to talk about myself,” you quipped. “But seriously, thank you. Everything leading up to now has happened so fast, it’s hard to really gauge if things are going well or not.”

“I can relate to that. It’s hard, but having my family and brothers helps keep me grounded, you know? Harrison, too. They know that they can call me out and, yeah, I might get mad at first, but I understand that they’re keeping me from getting a big head.”

“Yeah I can’t imagine how overnight it must have been for you. My family and friends definitely don’t miss the chance to poke a little fun here and there to keep my ego down, too. You know, it’s nice talking to someone who understands for once. I love them, but unfortunately they’ll never fully get what it’s like, but you do,” you smiled.

You talked a little more, then spilt off to actually go to get ready to leave the building for the night. The upcoming Friday was going to be a long one.

Once again, you let your manager and assistant and everyone leave ahead of you. Regardless of whether you would hitch a ride with Tom again, you could find your way around easily.

You waited by the door until you heard their voices nearing and the boys came into the hallway.

“Oh y/n, you’re still here, too,” Harry said.

“Yeah, I was trying to decide what to do for dinner tonight before I head back to the hotel.”

“Well we’re going to grab some pizza if you want to join us,” Harrison offered happily, causing Tom to look at him funny. 

“Y/n probably doesn’t want to be bothered by us all day every day and plus, she had pizza last night, I’m sure she doesn’t want it again. Sorry, y/n, don’t feel pressured by this div,” Tom said apologetically.

“Honestly, I could eat pizza everyday, so that’s not an issue, and I honestly love hanging out with you guys. You remind me of my friends back home. If y’all want to eat together, I seriously would not mind.”

“Really?” Tom asked incredulously, then recomposed himself. “Well, yeah, sure. We were gonna head back to the hotel to change clothes and then figure things out from there, is that okay?”

“That sounds perfect, except I’m paying the cab fare this time.”

***

In most situations, a group of guys you’d only known a couple of days asking you into their hotel room would be a major red flag, and it probably still should have been, but you threw caution to the wind and went to Tom’s suite anyways.

Harry answered the door and let you in, and inside you found Tom and Harrison on the floor of the living space drinking beers. They both raised their cans up to you as you came in.

All three of the boys were in simple sweats and t-shirts, similar to you in your leggings and sweatshirt. It wasn’t much later that Harry went to the lobby to retrieve the pizzas they’d ordered and you were all digging in, seated around the coffee table talking.

You all discussed random things, poking fun at each other like you were old friends. It was like they’d already accepted you as one of their own.

“How you think this weekend’s gonna go, y/n?” Tom asked between swigs of his ale.

“I’d say pretty good. I’m hella nervous though. SNL is like its own universe.”

“You can say that again. This is like nothing I’ve ever done before.”

“Oh, come on. You two are both going to do great Saturday. Don’t think too much about it and just have fun,” Harrison encouraged as you continued eating.

Throughout the evening, you couldn’t help but pick up on the way you and Tom kept making eye contact. It was brief, but it was different than how you and Harry or Harrison looked at each other. There was something else there.

Your stomach fluttered. Who else could say that they spent an evening drinking with their biggest celebrity crush? And then continually exchange flirty looks?

At one point Tom even tossed a wink at you after cracking a joke, causing your heartbeat to quicken momentarily. 

After getting lost in conversation with the boys, you realized the time and prepared to excuse yourself back to your own room. The coming morning was going to be an early one, after all. 

“Oh man, I better head out. We’ve got a long day ahead of us,” you commented, stretching as you stood up. The boys followed suit.

“Wow I didn’t even realize how long we’ve been sitting here,” Tom added.

“Yeah. Thanks again for letting me come over tonight. I haven’t gotten to do something like this in a while so it’s nice to just spend time with people who I don’t pay to hang around me all day, you know?”

“I understand and definitely can agree, since these divs are kind of paid to hang around me.”

You all laughed as Tom walked you to the door. 

“Well. See you bright and early...” you trailed.

“Yeah, see you then,” Tom answered, awkwardly sticking out his arms for a hug. You obliged, squeezing your arms around his neck as his held your waist.

And goodness did he give good hugs.

***

You were definitely tired walking into 8H Friday morning. The caffeinated drink in hand helped a little, but late night beers paired with waking up early didn’t quite go hand in hand.

It wasn’t really a hangover either, since you hadn’t been fully drunk, but it didn’t help the exhaustion from traveling, working the past two days, and a lack of sleep.

The first thing you had to do was rehearse your songs for Saturday as the set team worked on transporting and putting together large set pieces that had been made at the navy yard in Brooklyn.

Tom and the cast weren’t far away, figuring the live show with costuming and quick changes along with doing some pre-filmed sketches. The writers were continually making adjustments and figuring out how things would be done. 

They eventually called you over, too, to rehearse your sketches and film one of them. You had to get used to the costumes and cue cards and blocking of each. There had been some minor changes as well, so you had to be quick on your feet.

By lunchtime, all the cast took a well deserved break to sit and have a bite. The writers were having to shuffle around while they tried to eat as you and Tom sat down to talk some more.

“Hey, sorry to bug you, but do you guys mind if I take a picture or two for the SNL social media accounts?” a page asked while you were munching on sandwiches.

You and Tom looked at each other and shrugged.

“Fine with me,” you answered, Tom giving a similar reply. The two of you leaned in next to each other, holding up your sandwiches and laughing.

A few photos were snapped and you and Tom approved of them to be posted online. You thought nothing of it as you went to more rehearsals, working through the show’s order and trying to get down timing before Saturday’s dress rehearsal and show.

You couldn’t help but laugh watching the sketches, as this was your first time seeing the ones you weren’t a part of. Tom’s comedic timing and dry British humor paired well with the material he was given.

When the day came to an end, you were looking through instagram and gathering your things. You went to SNL’s page and put the post of you and Tom together onto your story, adding the text “Can’t wait for everyone to see my favorite sandwich partner host the show tomorrow!”

As before, you thought nothing of it and posted the story, heading out the door to ride back with Tom and the boys.

***

At the hotel, you and Tom had decided to not hang out for the evening since you’d be having a late, late night Saturday and wanted to get some sleep. You opened up social media as you laid in bed to wind down.

You decided to look at the picture of you and Tom from lunch again and read some comments, hoping there would be some funny ones and whatnot.

Instead, you found hundreds of comments saying “omg ship” and “my two faves together” and “this couple would be everything!!” 

You were honestly shocked to see people saying that about you, especially since you had never heard of your fans indicating that they wanted to see you two together.

Twitter was also buzzing over you and Tom’s picture, some fan pages just talking about either one of you, while others also talked about shipping you.

In your heart, you kind of enjoyed it, since you were hardcore crushing on Tom now, but you had no idea how he felt.

Did he like you back? Did he just think of you as just a friend or acquaintance? Was he secretly dating someone and you were just reading too much into it? 

It was much to think about, so instead you closed your phone and fell into a deep slumber.

***

You didn’t have to be in the studio as early as the past days since dress rehearsal wasn’t until 8pm and the show started at 11:30. You felt better rested than the day before, but butterflies were constantly erupting in your stomach.

You and Tom caught each other at the building’s entrance and went up the elevators together.

“Ready for tonight?” you asked, tapping a foot anxiously.

“Absolutely not. You?”

“Same here. Not only is it going to be watched by millions, but some of the most important people in my life are coming and I’m freaking out a little.”

“Oh yeah?” he asked softly. “And who would that be?”

“Well, my parents and some friends from home. I can sing in front of sold out stadiums but I still get nervous if I know they’re in a crowd. It’s stupid, I know.”

“No I totally get it. My parents and brothers will all be here, too, and my heart races when they watch my work. The best advice ever given to me, though was ‘turn nerves into excitement,’ and that’s exactly what I’m trying to do.”

You nodded and smiled up at him.

“That is pretty good. Thanks,” you replied as the elevator doors opened. 

The halls were bustling with what seemed like every employee as you headed to your green room. It wasn’t long before you were being thrown updated scripts and rehearsing again.

Finally as dusk turned to night, the dress rehearsal audience seats began filling up. You were bouncing nervously in the hall as you watched the cast begin the cold open on a monitor.

“Nervous?” a male voice asked quietly next to you. It was Tom, of course. You bobbed your head from side to side.

“Excited,” you replied cheekily. He smiled and was about to say something else when a crew member came by to lead him to his starting place for the monologue. He gave a quick wave before heading backstage, instead. 

The dress rehearsal went okay, certain jokes and lines being cut and rearranged by the end for time. Thankfully the audience received everything well, for the most part. 

Your own music and sketches felt like a rush, but you were proud. Tom’s advice had really gotten to you, because you were bubbling with excited anticipation for 11:30 broadcast to begin.

There was about an hour between dress and the actual taping, so you scarfed down a few bites of food and tried to shake out some jitters. You also sipped some caffeinated hot tea and did vocal runs to stay in tip top shape. 

Your friends and family stopped by the green room to say hi before they joined the audience, giving you hugs and encouragement for the evening ahead.

As the clock neared 11:30, you were walking down a hall already dressed for your first song when you almost bumped into Tom.

“Oh, hey! Great job at dress! You’re gonna do amazing,” you immediately said, making him beam.

“Thank you! And you too! Your voice is on fire tonight, as if it’s ever not.”

“You haven’t heard me try to sing sick, then. I sound like a diseased animal.” You shook your hands and head to dismiss yourself. “But, uh, earlier I was gonna tell you ‘break a leg’ and then I remembered you used to dance, sooo... merde.”

Tom raised his brows and chuckled. 

“You know that phrase too?” You nodded. “Well then merde to you, too. Oh, and I was wanting to ask if tonig-” 

Tom was cut off by someone once again needing to drag him away to prepare for the show, causing you both to toss waves at each other again. Maybe he’d finish his thought later.

This was it. The real deal. 

You took that as a cue to find your place by the monitors until after Tom’s monologue and the commercial break, when you’d start moving to stand with the band.

The cold open landed well, and you felt chills hearing two of the cast yell,

“And live from New York, IT’S SATURDAY NIGHT!”

The classic jazz music of SNL played over the intro and Tom made his way down the iconic steps to do his monologue. 

Your heart fluttered seeing him stand on that stage with a wide smile, waving at the crowd. He was dressed in a blue suit and his curls were styled just right. He looked incredible.

The monologue landed well and you felt an even bigger flutter as you heard Tom lead into commercial, saying the iconic line,

“We have a great show for you tonight! Y/n Y/l/n is here! So stick around we’ll be right back!”

With that the camera panned out and cut, and chaos began as the crew moved everyone to set the first live sketch. In the meantime, a prefilmed sketch played, the one you had participated in.

The audience cheered and laughed at your surprise appearance in the sketch, which made you feel really good. You had moved now to a place where you could see the stage in person.

The camera panned in as the audience applauded and the next sketch began. Even after having seen it multiple times that week, you couldn’t help but laugh as the ridiculous character Tom played so well. 

When they cut to another commercial break, it was your time to get ready to sing the first song. 

Your stomach fluttered like it always did before a show, but Tom shot you a thumbs up before the break ended and boosted your confidence. A camera was pointed in his face as he calmly said,

“Ladies and gentlemen, y/n y/l/n,” as he gestured towards you.

The lights came up and you began playing, and you became lost in the music like always. It came and ended quickly, and suddenly you were listening to the cheers of the audience. You waved and bowed in thanks as the cameras panned again.

Up came the weekend update, your favorite part of any Saturday Night Live. The jokes for the segment were typically written on Saturday, so many of them were new to you. 

Tom came and stood next to you during the update with a bowl-cut red wig dressed in khakis and a sweater vest over a button up. You looked him up and down amused.

“Your performance was amazing,” he whispered.

“Thanks. You’re doing great out there. They love you,” you whispered back.

“I sure hope so. Hey I’ve been trying to ask if-” he started, but then was cut off by someone grabbing him and leading him towards stage for the next sketch. Your stomach fluttered again.

What could he possibly want to ask me?

The live sketch transitioned into a prefilm and then you were up again, this song was more energetic and included some choreography, and you felt confident in the shimmering gold bodysuit and boots you were wearing. 

You happily danced and sung after Tom reintroduced you to the crowd and got a large round of applause. There was only one sketch left of the show and you were in it, so the team rushed you into a quickchange booth offstage to put on your costume and a quick wig.

The sketch began and you stood to the side nervously. When your cue came, you burst onto the stage clumsily, as directed by the script. Your character made some inappropriate comments to Tom’s which garnered you many laughs again.

It was satisfying.

Once the sketch ended, all that was left were the goodnights, so you were again rushed off to change into a cute jumpsuit and reaffix your hair. Tom came out in a blue suit with the jacket unbuttoned, a black tee underneath. 

You rushed to take your place next to him as other cast members filed in around you, Lorne standing in the middle of the room watching to make sure everyone came out. The audience applauded as the music played and camera panned.

After they gave the final countdown, Tom began giving thanks to many people, from cast and crew, to family, and to you.

“I want to give a huge thanks to tonight’s musical guest, y/n y/l/n,” he exclaimed, gesturing to you. The crowd cheered and you laughed and waved, giving him a joking elbow. 

“I love you all! Goodnight!” he finally exclaimed. 

With that, the music was brought up and everyone began hugging as the credits rolled. You immediately turned to Tom and he to you, both of you throwing arms wide. 

You wanted to hug him forever, but realized that it would look fishy and there were many people you still wanted to hug and thank.

Both of you pulled back, giving each other a quick “good job!” before turning to others.

***

You were finally offstage and had said quick goodbyes to your family, who wouldn’t be staying for the afterparty. As you headed towards the greenroom for the last time that night, you were stopped by Tom.

“Hey! Y/n,” he said, putting a hand on your shoulder.

“Oh my gosh there you are!” you said, turning to give him another hug, this one more emotional and less performative.

“I’m serious y/n, you were incredible. I know I’ve said it a million times but you have a real gift. Not to mention your acting skills,” he said into the crook of your neck.

You pulled away to look at him, arms still loosely wrapped around him.

“Well thank you, but you were great too. Everyone loved you. I loved you out there.” You paused for a moment, arms sliding from his shoulders as you continued to walk down the hall. “You know I had a lot of fun this week. Doing this and just hanging out. I was really nervous to meet you.” 

“I did too, and yeah, we were all super nervous to meet you, too. Like I told you before, we listen to your music a lot. But, uh, that being said. All night I’ve been trying to ask if you’d like to go to the afterparty with me?”

“Oh yeah that’s perfect! Are the guys coming too?” you asked enthusiastically, not detecting the nervousness in his voice.

“No, no. I mean, yeah they’ll be there but...” he stopped and you followed suit. “I’d like you to go with me with me. And ideally leave with me... alone.” 

Your eyes widened and breath hitched. Now it clicked. He was asking you out.

“Oh! Well then... I’d like that very much.” You smiled.

“Yeah?” he asked, incredulous.

“Yeah,” you answered.

Let’s just say you were singing a different kind of tune that night once you left to your empty hotel room “with him.”

***

A/N: omg omg omg I started this story forever ago but finally got around to finishing it! No new marriage project chapter this week, I thought I’d just post this to hold y’all over ;) Thanks for reading!

Permanent tag list: @jackiehollanderr, @one-big-fangirl

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[totallypathet]

UK Episode Five

UK Hun?

I know I haven't at all talked about Drag Race UK this season, but I have ~opinions~ and my flatmate is getting bored of me so here we are.

First episode back after lockdown! I feel so bad for these queens, started filming, get sent home for seven months, have no idea if/when they're going to start filming again, lose income for 7 months, it must have been so awful. But I'm glad they're all back! Except poor Veronica who got covid - I hope they do a Eureka and invite her back for season 3, I feel like she had so much more to show!

Of course they brought someone back to replace her, typical drag race gag, but nice that someone else got another chance! Having said that, it should have been Astina. She didn't deserve to go home in the first place, imo. I do think it was kind of harsh to throw that at everyone first thing though! Like the eliminated three didn't get to do anything to even fight for it, and for all the remaining queens, like its been seven months! Who remembers things that long?? Not me, that's for damn sure. I think that was kind of harsh, and I think a lot of people did go for Joe maybe as a safe choice, like there's always an argument for the queen who went home first, they didn't really get to show much. You know what I wish, I wish those three had been a group for the Eurovision (I refuse to say Rurovision) challenge, and then everyone got a chance to vote someone back. That would have felt fairer somehow.

Anyway. I was initially really glad we got Joe back, because I really felt like she did have more to show. I was soon to be disappointed, however 😂

I do love the music challenges, and I adore MNEK, I hope he is like the permanent music judge. One of my favourite moments was him, I think it was after Bimini's first take, going "well...its good that we have that..." very like Chrissy Teigen 😬 that was so funny to me, I loved it.

1. A'Whora

Before the covid break I really didn't like A'Whora, but I feel like she's come back a bit more relaxed, a bit more open, and I liked her so much more this episode. I feel like maybe when she came back she was a bit more relaxed because she knew (kind of) what she was walking into, so she felt a but more at home, maybe. Anyway, I think she did really well this week! She's not a singer, but she leaned into this moany sexy thing that some people do do at Eurovision, and hey, sex sells! I think it was a smart choice for her.

Her look as well... amazing. You guys it was a bag of chips! She had wooden forks as her earrings! The font of the newspaper was to scale! She was carrying a salt shaker! It was so sick, I loved it. I loved seeing her be fashion and polished and beautiful, but also whimsy and funny at the same time! Great week for A'Whora.

2. Bimini Bon Boulash

We LOOOOOOOVE Bimini Bon Boulash! For me, she was the absolute stand out this week, I just adored her! Her verse was amazing, her lyrics were great, her very East London attitude was everything, I just loved it. And her outfit! That mad pink cowboy barbie? Incredible! Also, so Eurovision. And the jump off the stool! That lives in my head rent free. "Somebody do a death drop or summing!" Perfect. The whole performance was amazing.

Also her runway looooooook! It was so beautiful, so fashion, I was getting Gautier from that lace and the umbrella... everything about it to me was so perfect. I know it was a team win, but to me Bimini absolutely killed it, and she was my winner 🥰🥰

3. Ellie Diamond

I love Ellie, but honestly I think she's too young for this competition. She's so great, but if you give her just a couple more years, she's going to be absolutely unstoppable. I think she did pretty well this week, her lyrics were fun, she is a dancer, she performed great! I do agree with Michelle, she did look a little bit like she was in her head for a lot of the performance, but that just comes with confidence, and when you've not performed for 7 months and then suddenly you're on the main stage, that's got to be super nerve wracking!

I also think Ellie was a victim of a bad group this week. I think the group as a whole didn't have a lot of direction or focus, the choreography wasn't that great, they didn't really feel like a group. It was unfortunate. I feel like she did the best she could.

I kind of loved her runway, I think the seagull thing was hilarious! She was a human size seagull! That's hysterical. The only thing I kind of wish is that she'd had ridiculous padding on. Like, what's funnier than a giant seagull with huge tits in a bikini. I think that's so funny.

4. Joe Black

Oh Joe. I was excited for Joe to come back, but as soon as she walked out to the Eurovision challenge in that dress with that wig and a belt, I knew it was over.

I'll get into the dress H&M/Primark drama in a second, but first let's talk about the actual challenge. Joe's lyrics were pretty good, but the way she performed them was just so at odds with the track. It's cheesy Euro pop, you know? I just feel like she could have done things differently. And then with the choreo...look I don't expect anyone to walk in being a great dancer and doing flips and splits and all that, but I just felt like she didn't even really try with the moves Ellie and Tia wanted to do. Maybe that was the edit, I don't know. I also feel like, as team leader, she could have found some solutions, like they could've had Tia & Ellie doing these amazing moves, and Sister & Joe could have done something more simple, or they could have found some comedy Joe could lean into while the others were dancing, but it just seemed like they didn't even try and find a way around it? It was just a bit weird to me.

And then she came out for the runway, and it was like chalk and cheese. Joe Black had by far and away the best runway look of the night. That's one of my favourite things that's ever been worn on UK Drag Race, it was amazing. But it was also like girl if you can do that, why were you wearing H&M during the main challenge? And like, I'd get it, if that dress was beautiful, or bold, or she'd used it as a base and done something to it, but it wasn't. It was so basic, and she even said she knew it was basic, and it didn't even fit her right. It was just so disappointing.

Honestly, I understand what Ru was saying about not wanting to see off the rack. I can't believe I'm about to be defending Transphobia Paul, but I actually kind of agree. And it's not about money, I don't think anyone has to spend loads of money to be a good drag queen, I think its just about it being a Look. A Moment. Like this is internationally available TV. And you're going to come out to perform in a dress off the sale rack that you just threw on and belted? I just find that disappointing. And I get what people are saying about Astina in week 1 winning with an off the rack outfit, but at least she did something with it. I mean, first of all it at least was a cool jacket. But then she built this outfit, and sold a character, she gave us an East London Moment, and it didn't matter that the jacket was from ASOS.

Joe didn't give us anything with that dress. She did nothing with it, and she didn't give us a character or a presentation, it was just an ugly dress. But then she came out in that incredible runway look, why such a disconnect? And I know that it was covid, and everyone had a loss of income, but girl the filming started before that. Like Joe should have already had the wardrobe for the season all ready before the lockdown. And if she didn't, she had 7 months to do literally anything with that dress. Stone it, glitter it, paint it, dye it, wreck it with bleach, make it a top, make it a jacket, do SOMETHING! You know? Also, that runway look? Idk if she made it or commissioned it, but baby that was not cheap. That took time, and energy, and effort, and money, so I'm calling bullshit on "maybe she could only afford a sale rack H&M dress 😔". Bullshit, Vivienne.

I was just so disappointed in Joe. I'm glad she went home.

5. Lawrence Chaney

I was worried for Lawrence this week! She's not known for being a singer or a dancer, and she was the only plus size girl in her group. As a big bitch myself I know it can be intimidating to be surrounded by thin people, especially when you're doing things you're not confident in.

But bitch she fucking turned it out this week! She wrote good lyrics, she kept up with the choreography, but most importantly, she performed the song. Like she leaned into not being a good dancer, she didn't look unsure or awkward, she just did it. I love that about Lawrence, she always just gives it her best, and I respect the hell out of it.

Her day at the seaside look was cute. It was a little bit obvious, a little bit literal, but it was well made, it fit her beautifully, and she looked fantastic. She did the assignment, and tbh I'm happy with that. She did a good job, and I'm proud of her!

6. Sister Sister

Honesly, the fact that Tia Kofi was in the bottom two when Sister Sister was right there is a fucking hate crime.

I genuinely forgot Sister Sister even existed. Like the only memorable thing she has done all season is her Morning Talk Show goth, and that was painful to watch. And she spends all her confessionals just bitching and moaning about other people! She spent the whole Talk Show episode complaining about Veronica and saying she didn't wanna work with her, but bitch what did you do?? If you think someone else is boring, you should have no trouble out shining them! And then she didn't!

I'm over it with her. Her performance wasn't that good, her lyrics weren't that good, and then her runway look was like the Wish version of A'Whora's.

I'm not totally certain that I buy that Sister stole it as a concept from A'Whora, but... maybe? Like, if Sister had really seen A'Whora's when they were filming the first time, and Sister had something totally different back then... I can see that maybe she thought "oh, thats a way better idea". All I know is, if you're gonna do the same look as someone else, you better leave them in the dust; and she didn't. She should have been lipsyncing this week.

7. Tayce

Tayce really pulled it out this week! Her rap was one of the best performances in the whole show, she killed it! Her lyrics were great, she really delivered them like a rapper, and them she performed the hell out of the song! Loved it. The only things I had to say about Tayce was that she seemed like the odd one out in the group in terms of outfits? Like everyone else went very Eurovision, cheesy pop pink, and she went with a very cool, edgy, darker look. Like, she looked stunning, and I looooved her hair, but it just didn't quite fit with the rest of the group. But that's a real nitpick, in terms of the actual performance, she was amazing!

Tayce's runway look. It was okay. It was a little bit literal for me, she went for shells and netting. It was cool, she looked beautiful, but it wasn't like a knockout for me.

8. Tia Kofi

Tia got a raw fucking deal this week. She was the best performer in her group by a country fucking mile, she had the best lyrics, she was the best rapper, and I think she looked the best out of the four in that group (during during challenge). I could not believe they put her in the bottom two.

Okay, her runway look was not great. It was a long way from great. But at least she had a unique concept (*cough* Sister), and she gave us some form of presentation. It could have been a lot better, but there was potential! I really wish that she'd had a much more defined look, I wish the skirt had been a high waisted pencil skirt, with some kind of cone-like texture somehow, really fitted and beautiful. And then I wish the top had been really big and over the top ruffles, maybe tulle, just something BIG. And that wouldn't have had to be expensive, you can buy cheap pencil skirts, she could have dyed one brown herself, and then she could have bought that cheap mesh that looks like tulle and made a really big rounded ice cream top out of it - I'm just proving my point about Joe Black and the off the rack thing now btw. But I wish it had just been a bit more considered than it was. And I also wish she'd had a flake head piece instead of a cherry, because when you buy those ice creams at the beach it's always a 99.

One thing I will give Tia's runway this week is that her face was stunning. I think that's the best her face has looked all season, the makeup was beautiful.

There was kind of a lot of drama this week with the whole off the rack thing, and then the A'Whora vs Sister Sister conspiracy, and I kind of loved it! I also really enjoyed this challenge, I feel like they've had much better and more interesting challenges on the UK series than the American one. Also UK Hun is going to be in my head for weeks.

I'm picking my top 2 of the season as Lawrence Chaney and Bimini Bon Boulash. Veronica Green would have been up there for me as well, it's a real shame that she got sick and couldn't finish this season! I really really hope they bring her back for season 3!

[all-of-the-above]

Being a woman today

As a woman in today’s world, you may feel…

a)     Insecure

b)    Body conscious

c)     Unpopular

d)    Not pretty enough

e)    Not perfect enough

f)      Weak

g)     Scared

h)    Unsatisfied

i)      Pressured

j)      All of the above?

Well, I think most of us can say me too. One thing I think we know for certain is that we are not alone in how we feel, yet the world can still make us feel like the odd one out. You see, being a woman is entirely one thing, but to be one in the society we have today is another. We face so many different things, fight for so many rights and are still put down, shamed and ignored. To feel uncomfortable in this world I think is honest and true. I hear you, so many of us are listening its just not enough. Who knew those princess stories weren’t true?

To be male or female in our society is highly pressurising, but I think we can all agree it is more so for women. Social media has infiltrated our lives, bringing connection, laughter and creativity but also pressure, bad body images, abuse and suffering. We scroll through pictures and think this is how I should look, why am I not that skinny, why don’t I have her hair, my teeth aren’t perfect, my lips are too small, I should wear more makeup, but also, I shouldn’t wear too much makeup. I need that outfit, I should go there, I need to be that happy, I should have that by now. No. Stop. Stop hurting yourself, stop hurting your body image, stop hurting your mental health. Take a breather, step back. No one is that happy all the time, no one looks like that 24/7. Stop comparing yourself to others, stop putting yourself down and wishing you could be more. You are already enough, and I know it is hard and it is tough, but so are you. Since when did life become this huge competition sometimes with complete strangers? Why put yourself through more stress just to look good for people who don’t really care. We consistently want something we don’t have and forget what we do have. You don’t need to post every time you do something just to show off. You don’t need to edit your photos so much that you lose yourself. You need to be you, post reality, post if and when you please, post for you. Stop editing and instead start loving what you see, embrace your ‘flaws’, your individuality. Life is for living, for real conversation, for smiles and for sunsets, for food, for music, for friends, for family, not for a screen that makes you feel unhappy in who you are. Stop competing, stop wishing to look like them or be like them, stop scrolling and start being you each and every day and don’t hide it from the world, share it, make a change, be someone who posts life and inspire others to stop wasting precious time editing and putting down and under appreciating themselves and their life.

Something else that really bugs me is the cost of being a woman. Why is everything so much more expensive? No, I don’t want to hear all that rubbish about women being the bigger consumers okay, I get it, we all do, but its still no reason for such stark differences. Why can a man get is hair cut for £10 whilst I have to pay £40 and up? So, women’s hairstyles can be more complicated, okay, but that’s a lot of money! Why is my plain white top £10 whilst his is £5, there’s no difference? Oh, and last time I checked sanitary products still cost. Those are not cheap, it is something we haven’t even chosen, we have no choice, but have to pay for it? What’s all that about? And why in the hell are they considered a luxury? It is a necessity, a healthy and clean way of caring for our bodies and they should be available everywhere for everyone, free of charge. But no. We pay again. And not only this but men have the gall to say periods aren’t painful, we shouldn’t be so moody, there’s no need it’s just natural. You see they refuse to understand, to listen, to help. A Professor of reproductive health at University College London, John Guillebaud, told Quartz that patients have described the cramping pain as 'almost as bad as having a heart attack.' Even a fact like that isn’t believed. Yet again women feel another form of pressure to be a certain way, to deal with it and move on. We are told to look certain ways, so we buy the latest fashion instead of being mocked, we cut our hair to just simply keep it healthy, we get our nails done, our eyebrows, eyelashes, we tan, we wax, we shave. We do so much, yet still pay more. How is it fair that we should pay more for things that men have too (like a haircut) when we also have so many other expenses. To be a woman means to feel under constant pressure. Maybe we don’t need to update our wardrobe every year, or consistently get our nails done, okay, but I think the point still stands. To be a woman is not cheap, it’s not easy, it’s not for the faint hearted, it’s tough.

A woman feels pressure from many aspects of society, and I know one in particular is clothes. We can feel insecure and even scared to wear a particular outfit to a particular place at a particular time. Why is that a thing? How is that fair? Its not. I should be able to walk down the street in a dress and not be starred at by men that are old enough to be my dad. I shouldn’t worry that someone may take my outfit as an invitation. I should be able to wear what I want and not be called out for it. Why am I starred at for wearing leggings and a top yet when I wear jogging bottoms and a large sweater, I’m invisible? You see sometimes it’s like a disguise, a safety net, a comfort blanket. My own invisibility cloak where I can go out and feel maybe just that bit safer, less looked upon, freer. This isn’t right, we shouldn’t be creating a world where girls are scared to wear skirts, to wear shorts or a dress or even jeans or leggings. Girls shouldn’t feel scared to wear their clothes. We don’t take a guy walking around with no top on and shorts as an invitation do we? So why take a girl in a dress, more covered up than a guy like that, as an invitation? I think we’ve proved that even at this point sometimes it doesn’t matter what you wear, its still scary out there. So how on earth have we built a society where women now could wear a mini skirt or high-vis coat and still be taken advantage of, still abused, used and even killed? Its wrong. Why is being a woman labelled as easy, that we don’t have to do much or worry about much. If you listened, looked, read, researched, you would see just how hard it is. It’s not easy, it’s scary, it’s pressurising, it’s tough.

To be a woman today means to be tough, it means to have a hard shell, to be prepared for the world, to support yourself, to love yourself as much as possible and feel comfortable in who you are. It means to be satisfied in your life and in you, whilst trying to not let the world around you scar your skin. This is for all the women out there, I hope you know you are not alone, you a brave, beautiful, bold and brilliant. The world is cruel but don’t let it stop you, know you are strong and capable of so many things. Know that who you are right now is more than enough.

[thebaconsandwichofregret]

Happy False Value Day everyone!!!

As many of you know Ben Aaronovitch used to work for Waterstone’s, a bookshop chain in the UK, and because he’s quite proud of having worked there (and they are proud of having once employed him, no seriously, every time I even look at one of his books in one of their shops a member of staff spontaneously appears to tell me “He used to work here you know!” If I had a pound for every time I’d heard that I could afford to buy the Folly) he gives Waterstone’s a special exclusive short story in the first run of every new Rivers of London book. 

Obviously this is great for those of us who are UK fans. 

It’s less great for those of you who are international fans. However in the spirit of International Magical Cooperation I managed to get my hands on my copy ever so slightly early and so I have here for your reading pleasure, the exclusive short story from False Value - A Dedicated Follower of Fashion

Please note that this story contains mentions of sex and drugs and rock’n’roll

A Dedicated Follower of Fashion

By Ben Aaronovitch

You know that song by The Kinks? Not that one. The other one. No, not that one either. Yeah, that one- ‘Dedicated Follower of Fashion’. You wouldn’t believe it to look at me now, but that song’s about me. 

These days my daughter does her best to keep me looking respectable, and I haven’t the heart to tell her that I’d much rather wear my nice comfortable corduroy trousers, with braces, and leave my shirt untucked. But back in the sixties I was the dedicated follower of fashion. And it’s true that they sought me here and they sought me there but, as Ray Davies knew perfectly well, that was probably because of the drug dealing. What can I say? Clothes aren’t cheap. 

I was a middleman buying wholesale and supplying a network of dealers, mostly in and around the King’s Road. I rarely sold retail, although I did have a number of select clients. And of course nothing lubricates a soirée like a bowl full of alpha-methylphenethylamine. It was all going swimmingly until some little shit from Islington stiffed me on a payment and I found myself coming up ten grand short. And, believe me, ten grand in 1967 was a lot of money. You could buy a house in Notting Hill for less than that - not that anyone wanted to, not in those days. 

Now, I’ll admit that as an entrepreneur working in such a volatile industry, I probably should have ensured that I had a cash reserve stashed away against such an eventuality. Mistakes were definitely made. But in my defence, not only had I just discovered the joys of blow, I was also distracted by my infatuation with Lilith. 

Now, I’ve always cheerfully swung both ways and, to be honest, I’ve always been more attracted by the cut of someone’s trousers than what was held therein. But when I met Lilith it was if all the cash registers rung out in celebration. She was so like a man in some ways and so like a woman in others. I’d love to say that it was the best of both worlds, but looking back it was a disaster in every respect. Although a completely exhilarating disaster, like a roller coaster to an unknown destination. I tried explaining what she was like to Ray Davies and that beardy writer who ran that sci-fi magazine, but they both got her completely wrong. 

So there I was, suddenly ten grand down to people whose names you’re better off not knowing - let’s just call them the Deplorables and leave it at that. If I tell you that their nicknames were Cutter, Lead Pipe and Gnasher, that should give you a flavour of their character. You could call Cutter the brains behind the gang but that would be risking an overstatement. Organised crime in the good old days required little in the way of actual brains and relied much more on a calculated defiance of the social niceties vis-à-vis psychotic violence. Terrify your rivals, bully your customers, and hand out a bung to the local constabulary and you were away. 

And it goes without saying that aesthetically they were a dead loss. 

The Deplorables had a straightforward approach to those that owed them money which I will leave to your imagination - suffice only to say that it involved a sledgehammer and, of all things, a marlinspike. 

But I had no intention of losing my knees, so I had arranged a couple of new deals that would net me a sufficient profit to cover both what I owed the Deplorables and the same again to appease them sufficiently to save my poor knees from a fate worse than polyester. 

I know some of you are thinking that polyester was hip and groovy back in the Swinging Sixties, but trust me when I say that it was an abomination from the start - whatever the elegance of its long chain polymers.

In order to keep body and wardrobe together while I waited for these deals to come to fruition I decanted, along with Lilith and my faithful sidekick Merton, to a squat in Wandsworth just off the Earlsfield High Street. Now, I normally shun the transpontine reaches of the capital. But my thinking was sound. With my reputation as a flower of Chelsea and the King’s Road, I reckoned that nobody - least of all the dim members of the Deplorables - would think to look for me across the river. 

‘No fucking way,’ said Lilith when she first saw it, ‘am I living in this shithole.’

Squats come in many flavours. But political, religious or student, they are almost always shitholes. However, I could see this one had potential and Nigel, God bless his woolen Woolworths socks, had at least kept it clean. 

But not particularly tidy. 

Outwardly Nigel was definitely one of the children of Aquarius. Inside he had the soul of an accountant, but alas none of the facility with numbers. 

According to Nigel, who could be dull about this sort of thing, the building we were squatting in had been built in the eighteenth century as an inn that specialised in serving the trade along the river Wandle. This was news to me, because I had assumed the rank channel immediately behind the house was a canal. 

‘There used to be factories up and down the Wandle,’ he told me despite my best efforts to stop him, ‘all connected up with barges. And this is where the wartermen used to get their drinks in.’

With the collapse of that trade it was converted into a grad town house, a status it retained for a hundred years or so before providing slum housing for the unwashed multitude. Occasionally on its hundred-year odyssey it would surface into the light of respectable society before descending once more into the depths of squalor. 

Which is where yours truly arrived to bring a touch of colour and a modicum of good taste to the old place. 

Looking back, I believe that might have been the start of the whole ghastly business. 

Now the thing about the drug trade is that it overlaps with the general smuggling industry. As a result a man with the right contacts can acquire much in the way of valuable cloth - Egyptian cotton and the like - without troubling the good people of Her Majesty’s Customs and Excise. Then such an individual might use his reputation for fashion to sell on said items to the East End rag trade at less than wholesale, cash under the table, no questions asked and no invoices raised. Not as lucrative as a suitcase full of horse, but safer and more dependable. 

Cloth, even expensive cloth, takes up considerably more room even than Mary Jane, so the fact that the old building had a beer cellar capacious enough to store the stock was the other reason I’d chosen it as a bolt-hole. Merton and I pressed Nigel into service to help us carry the bales, wrapped in tarpaulin for protection, down to the cellar, which proved to be mercifully dry and cool.

It was surprisingly cool - you could have used it as a pantry. 

‘That’s because of the river,’ Nigel explained. ‘It’s just the other side of that wall.’

I touched the wall and was surprised to find it cool but bone dry. 

‘They know how to build houses in those days,’ said Nigel. 

Once we’d moved the good in, it was time to deal with the ever simmering domestic crisis that was life with Lilith. In the latest instalment of the drama, she had ejected Nigel from the master bedroom and claimed it as her own. This was less of a distraction than it might be because Nigel, like nearly all men, was clearly smitten with Lilith and acquiesced with surprisingly good grace. 

And so we settled in companionably enough, especially when Lilith and Nigel discovered a common in the works of Jack Kerouac. I could see that at some point I would be bedding down with Merton for a night or two. I won’t lie and say that I didn’t find Lilith’s peccadillos upsetting but Merton, bless his acrylic Y-fronts offers compensation in his own rough manner. 

Things started to go wrong the night of the storm and consequent flood. And while our decision to drop acid and commune with the thunder- Nigel’s idea, by the way - probably wasn’t to blame, it certainly didn’t help.

I don’t normally do hallucinogenics as they often disappoint. You go up expecting Yellow Submarine and get a lot of irritating visual distraction instead. My colour sense is quite keen enough, thank you, without having a pair of purple velvet bell-bottoms start to shine like a neon sign. 

The master bedroom - now Lilith’s domain - contained, of all things, a king-size four-poster bed that was missing its curtains. But since I’d arrived, it at least had matching cotton sheets in a tasteful orange and green fleurs-de-lis pattern. They matched the old wallpaper with its geometric tan and orange florets that still showed the retangular ghosts of long vanished photographs and paintings.

At some point - Nigel had said the 1930s - the owners had installed an aluminium-framed picture window that ran almost the length of the room and looked out over the canal, or more importantly, up into the boiling clouds of the oncoming storm. 

Lilith started on the bed with all three of us, but I can’t take anything seriously when heading up on LSD, least of all sex. So I quickly disengaged and chose to sit on the end of the bed and watch the storm. I doubt the others were troubled by my absence. 

I watched the storm come in over the rooftops of South London with lightning flashing in my eyes and that glorious sense of joy that only comes from something psychoactive interacting with your neurones. I lost myself in that storm and, in it, I thought I sensed the roar of the god of joy, whose acolytes dance naked on the hilltops and rip the goats apart. 

But the mind is fickle and darts from thought to thought and I became fascinated by the patterns the raindrops traced down the window glass. Then the play of light and shadow drew me to the walls, where I found myself pulling at the torn edge of the wallpaper. Like most squats, damp had gotten into the room at some point in the past and the top layer peeled away to reveal another layer below - a vertical floral design in red, purple and green on a pale background. Carefully I stripped a couple of square feet away. And while behind me Lilith howled obscenities in the throes of her passion, I started on the next layer. This revealed a faded leaf design in silver and turquoise. The colours pulled at me and I realised that if I could just find the original surface I might open a portal to another dimension - one of style and colour and exquisite taste. 

But I had to be patient. Clawing the walls would disrupt the delicate lines of cosmic energy that flowed along the pinstripes of the layer of blue linen-finish paper. Delicately, I peeled a loose corner until I uncovered a beautiful mustard yellow bird that glowed with an inner light. Gently and meticulously I revealed more. A trellis design overgrown with olive and brown brambles sporting red flowers and crimson birds. I knew it at once as a classic design from ‘the Firm’, the company founded by William Morris to bring back craftsmanship to a world turned grey and smoky by the Industrial Revolution.

I was ready for a hallucination then, and willed my mind into the pattern in front of me, but nothing happened. The wallpaper shone out of the hole in the wall, the light shifting like sunlight through a real trellis, real birds, but that achingly rational part of my brain stayed aloof. Chemistry, it said, it’s all chemistry. 

At some point Nigel escaped the bed and fled whimpering into the cupboard and closed the door behind himself. 

The trellis and its mustard-coloured birds mocked me from the walls, 

‘I think we’re sinking,’ said Merton, for what I realised was the third or fourth time. 

I was still coming down and it took concentration to focus on Merton, who was stark naked and pacing up and down at the foot of the bed. Lilith was sprawled face down, arms and legs spread like a starfish to occupy as much space as possible. There was no sign of Nigel, and in my elevated state I seriously gave consideration to the thought that Lilith had devoured him following coitus. 

Merton rocked back and forth on the balls of his feet, as if testing his footing. 

‘Definitely sinking,’ he said, and ran out of the door. 

I flailed about a bit until I found a packet of Lilith’s Embassy Filters and a box of Swan Vestas, managed to not light the filter on the second attempt and dragged in a grateful lungful. A burst of head-clearing nicotine helped chase away the last of the lysergic acid diethylamide and I was just trying to determine whether I’d hallucinated a naked Merton when he reappeared.

‘I’ve got good news and bad news,’ he said. ‘We’re not sinking but we’re definitely flooding.’

The cellar was divided into two parts. The stairs led down to the smaller part of it, essentially a wide corridor which used to house, so Nigel insisted on telling me, the coal chute - now bricked up. A big metal reinforced door opened into the larger part of the cellar - the part with over ten grand’s worth of fabric stored in it. The door was closed but the corridor part was two inches deep in filthy water. 

‘Don’t open the door!’ called Nigel from the top of the stairs. 

I had no intention of leaving the dry section of the stairs, let alone risking the cuffs of my maroon corduroy flares in what looked to me like sewage overflow. Merton, who’d been trying to force the door open, now splashed back as if stung. For a man who I’d once seen cheerfully batter a traffic warden for awarding him a ticket, it was odd how he never argued with Nigel - not about practical things to do with the house anyway. 

Nigel, resplendent in a genuine Indian cloth kaftan - or so he claimed - passed me and stepped gingerly into the water. Reaching the door, he rapped sharply with his knuckles just above the waterline, then he methodically rapped up the door until he reached head height. After a few experimental raps to confirm, he turned to me and told me I was deader than a moleskin waistcoat. 

‘The whole room’s flooded,’ he said. ‘Probably not a good idea to open this door.’

I sat down on the stairs and put my head in my hands. I did a mental inventory of what I’d stored and how it had been packed. It was bad, but if we could pump out the room half of it could be salvaged - especially the silks, since the individual rolls had been wrapped in polythene. 

Thank God for Hans von Pechmann, I thought, and got to my feet. 

‘We need to drain the room,’ I said. ‘Nigel, get a pump and enough hose to run it back out to the river.’

Nigel nodded.

‘Yeah, yeah,’ he said, and practically skipped up the stairs. 

‘Put some clothes on before you go out!’ I called after him. 

I told Merton that when we had the pump and the hose, he would have to cut a suitable hole in the door -  near the top. 

‘Will you need tools?’ I asked. 

Merton eyed up the door. 

‘I have what I need in my bedroom,’ he said.

‘Good,’ I said. ‘Let’s have a cup of tea.’

It took Nigel the best part of the day to source the suitable equipment. In the meantime, I sent Merton out to the local phone box to see if I couldn’t rustle up another life- and kneecap-saving transaction. Ideally, I should have been making the calls myself but I didn’t dare show my face on the street - it’s a well-known face, even in South London. I spent the time cataloguing my wardrobe, alas much reduced by my exile, ironing that which needed ironing and casting away those items that had fallen out of style since my last purge. 

Some things never go out of style - some things, thank God, will never come back. Let us hope that the lime-green acrylic aquiline button-down cardigan is one of them. I really don’t know what I was thinking when I bought it. 

Apart from a spectacularly noisy toilet break, Lilith stayed blissfully asleep in the main bedroom until teatime and then vanished into the bathroom for the next two hours. 

Once Nigel had returned with the pump and the hose, Merton used his hammer and chisel to cut a rough hole, six inches across, near the top of the door. Nigel had brought down the cream-coloured hostess trolley and mounted the pump on that to keep it out of the water. Once it was rigged we ran a hosepipe up the stair, down the hall, across the kitchen and poked it out the back window. Merton stayed to supervise the outflow while I returned to the top of the stairs and gave Nigel the nod. 

It looked ramshackle and was, indeed, held together with string and gaffer tape. But like most things that Nigel built, especially his improvised hookahs, it was perfectly adequate. The pump puttered into life, the pipe going through the hole in the door stiffened, there was a gurgling sound and I followed the passage of the water upstairs and into the kitchen. There, an arc of water shot from the hose and into the river beyond. 

‘How long until it’s pumped out?’ I asked.

‘A couple of days,’ said Nigel. 

When I objected, he pointed out that it was a small-bore hosepipe, that the cellar was large and that we didn’t know how the river water was getting in. 

Some things you can’t control, I suppose, such as Lilith - who I found sitting in the kitchen in a loose yellow kimono, drinking brandy and letting her assets hang out. 

‘It smells different in here’ she said.

I pointed out that the window was open to allow egress of the hosepipe and was thus allowing fresh air, to which Lilith was generally unaccustomed, to enter the room. Lilith grunted and said she was going out that evening to meet some friends in Soho. 

I tried to talk her out of it but she insisted, and there was no stopping Lilith when she was set on something. 

‘What if the Deplorables see you?’ I asked.

‘Darling,’ said Lilith, throwing an orange ostrich feather boa around her neck, ‘the Deplorables never frequent the places I do and in any case - I’m invisible.’

I was making another calming cup of tea when I realised that Lilith had been right. The kitchen smelt fresh and, oddly, sun dappled - of you thought sun dappled was a smell. I went to the open window and took a deep breath. Not normally something I’d recommend given the foetid nature of the Wandle - which still looked more like a canal to me - behind the house. The air was fresh and another thing I noticed was that the water shooting out of the hosepipe was clear. I pulled the pipe in a bit and had a closer look and then an experimental tate - just the tip of the tongue, you understand. It was plain, clean water. Perhaps, I thought, the cellar had been flooded by a burst mains pipe. If so, then there was a chance that much of my stock might survive relatively intact. 

I also noticed that the house had a small back garden, or rather a side garden, an overgrown patch of weeds and brambles that filled a roughly triangular space between next door’s garden wall, the river and the side of the kitchen. I replaced the hose and went looking for the door that led to the garden. I’m not a horticulturalist myself, but to a man in my position, knowing there’s a back door - for egress in extremis - is always a comfort. 

It took three days to drain the cellar, which passed as quickly as two quarters of Lebanese cannabis resin could make it. Now I’ve never been one to get the munchies, but Nigel could consume an astonishing amount of fish and chips, and poor Merton was forced to make several supply runs. On the morning of the fourth day, Nigel declared that we could force the door and I went to fetch Merton. 

Who was nowhere to be found.

His room was as he always left it, the bed made with military precision and knife-edge creases. Merton was a thoroughly institutionalised boy, but what institution - the navy, prison, the Foreign Legion - I’d never thought to ask. His clothes, though dull, were hung or folded with the same admirable care. His tool case was missing but the canvas bag containing his baseball bat, bayonet and the long wooden stick with the stainless steel barbs that I didn’t want to know the purpose of, was tucked into the wardrobe next to his two spare pairs of Doc Martens boots. 

I returned to the basement corridor, which Nigel had mercifully mopped clean once the muddy water had soaked away. Nigel was standing by the door to the cellar, stock-still and staring at something on the floor. 

‘What is it?’ I asked.

Nigel pointed mutely at a battered blue metal toolbox sitting by the door. Its top was open and its trays expanded to reveal its rows of neatly arrayed tools and boxes of screws and nails.

‘He must have gone inside,’ said Nigel. His voice dropped to an urgent whisper. ‘Inside there!’

Since I had no idea why Nigel was so agitated, I reached out and pushed the door open. It opened a fraction and then pushed back - as if someone was leaning against the other side.

‘Merton,’ I said, ‘stop fucking about and let me in.’

I shoved harder and the door opened a crack and out poured a weird sweet smell like cooked milk. And with it a sense of outraged dignity which so surprised me that I jumped back from the door, which slammed shut. 

‘Is he in there?’ asked Nigel.

‘Must be,’ I said, but I wasn’t sure I believed it.

Neither of us could match Merton -  because that’s who it had to be - for physical might. I mean, I employed him precisely because he could intimidate your average creditor just by breaking wind. So we trooped upstairs for a cup of tea and some pharmaceutical reinforcement. 

‘Got any more black beauties?’ asked Nigel, who never could separate his biphetamines from his common or garden amphetamines. I swear, you try to educate people but there are limits. I gave him a couple of ludes, and given the day we’d had so far, took a couple myself. Lilith returned fabulously drunk at two in the morning, and we all piled into bed and didn’t get up until the next afternoon. 

The door to the cellar remained closed and Merton’s tool case was still where he’d left it. I tried the door, but it was stuck fast with no give at all. I even tried knocking it down, like they do in films, but all I did was bruise my shoulder. 

If Merton was in there, he wasn’t coming out until he was good and ready. And since I wasn’t getting in, I had to accept that I wouldn’t be realising any value from my stock of fabrics any time soon. Still, I’d already written down their value and put other deals in motion to generate cash flow - another drug deal, as it happens. A stack of Happy Bus LSD out of Rotterdam. A little bit riskier than my normal deals, but needs must, as they say.

Without Merton, I was forced to rely on Nigel to go out and make the necessary phone calls. Unlike Merton, who followed instructions without question, I had to explain everything to him as if he were in a spy movie with Michael Caine. Once he had the gist, he darted out the front door wearing an RAF surplus greatcoat. As I watched him go from the upstairs window, I realised that his hair had grown long enough to reach between his shoulder blades and wondered why I hadn’t noticed. 

The next couple of days went past with no sign of Merton, and I only managed to keep anxiety at bay with the help of my dwindling supply of cannabis resin and long punishing nights with Lilith. 

The door to the cellar remained closed. 

When I had nerved myself up to go look, I noticed that something had been jammed into the cracks around the edge of the door - as if it had oozed out from inside the cellar in liquid form and then set on contact with air. I took a set of pliers from Merton’s tool case and worried a fragment out. It’s a long time since I’ve prepared a slide in earnest, but while I didn’t have a microscope I did have a jeweller’s glass I keep for checking crystal shape. Under magnification the fragment revealed itself to be a tangle of threads - blue cotton, my good Egyptian cotton at a guess. I picked at the tangle with a pair of tweezers and a strange notion struck me -  that the threads weren’t tangled randomly, that there was a pattern to the knots.

I could imagine a circumstance where the pressure of water could both shred the original weave of a cloth and then tangle the threads. I could even imagine water pressure forcing the threads around the edge of the door, but it seemed unlikely. Before I discovered fashion and pharmaceuticals I did a degree in chemistry. Started a degree, to be precise - I stopped paying attention in the second year. But I always thought of myself as rational even when under the influence. 

If I’d known what I know now, I would have run screaming from the house and taken my chances with the Deplorables. But I lived in a much smaller world in those days. 

Although large enough for my Rotterdam connection to agree to a deal. Not only that, but it seemed my credit was good enough for me to procure a sample shipment on good faith. With the profit from that sale I could finance a larger shipment and thus dig myself out of my financial predicament and quit the squat - and it’s creepy basement.

The only catch being that I would have to provide my own mule to bring the sample in. Normally you don’t use your friends as mules, not even friends of friends. What you really want is a gullible person who’s been talked into it by someone you only know through business. I knew a guy who could meet a girl at a party and have her on a plane to Ankara the next day. He made a living recruiting mules and didn’t mind some wastage at all - right up to the point someone’s mother gave him both barrels of her husband’s grousing shotgun. The police never caught her and only Merton and I turned up for the funeral. 

It wasn’t hard to persuade Lilith to fly to Rotterdam - especially first class - and the beauty was that wherever she touched down, she paid for herself. Or to be strictly accurate, other people took care of her needs for her. The downside, of course, was that you had to allow her time to party - in this case, at least a week. You’d think that without Lilith sharing the high thread cotton sheets of the four-poster bed I’d be getting more sleep, but I found myself spending most of every night staring at the underside of the bed’s canopy. 

It didn’t help that I had to ration the Quaaludes - I needed them to keep Nigel functioning. 

‘There’s something in the cellar,’ he said, and refused to go down into the basement. 

I, on the other hand, found myself increasingly drawn to the cellar door. Especially when it started to flower. 

It started with a spray of cotton around the door frame, overlapping triangular leaves of white and navy-blue cotton that stuck to the bricks of the wall as if they’d been glued in place. I took a sample and found that instead of regular weave, the cloth was formed by the intertwining of threads in a complex pattern. Some of the threads amongst the white and blue were a bright scarlet and spread through the fabric in a branching pattern like streams into a river basin. Or, more disturbingly, like capillaries branching out from a vein. 

I did make an attempt, cautiously, to scrape one of the ‘leaves’ off the wall with a trowel I found in Merton’s tool case. But even as I pushed the blade under the edge of the cloth I felt such a wave of disinterest -  I cannot describe it more clearly than that- that I found myself halfway up the basement stairs before I realised what had happened. 

The next day the cotton leaves had spread out at least another six inches and surrounding the door were tongues of crimson and yellow orgaza. Individual threads had begun to colonise the door proper - curling into swirling patterns like ivy climbing a wall. I spent an indeterminate amount of time with my back to the opposite wall, staring at the pattern to see if I could spot them moving.

I wondered what it meant. Perhaps Nigel was right, and the Age of Aquarius was upon us and we had entered a time of miracles. 

When I was upstairs I tried to put the cellar out of my mind and concentrate on plans for the future. I had fallen into drug dealing almost by accident and had always found it an easy and convenient way to keep myself in the sartorial fashion I aspired to. But if my run-in with the deplorables was an indication of the future, then perhaps it was time to pack it in. A boutique of my own instead, one in which I could serve both as owner-manager and inspiration. Before the merest thought of doing actual work, no matter how supervisory, had filled me with disgust but now … now it seemed attractive. 

I didn’t trust these feelings. 

I needed out of the squat. I needed to be strutting down the King’s Road or Carnaby Street. I wanted back out into the world, where I could be as dazzling and as splendid as the first acolyte of the goddess of fashion. 

But you need working kneecaps to strut your stuff. And so I stayed where I was. 

By the third day the door was completely obscured behind a tapestry of red, black and gold thread, and wings of cotton spread out across the walls and ceiling. The organza had likewise spread and a third wave of pink and yellow damask now framed the doorway. By the sixth day the entire corridor was curtained in swathes of multicoloured fabric, so that it seemed a tunnel to a draper’s wonderland. 

I no longer dared leave the safety of the foot of the stairs and yet I still found myself walking down them three times a day to look. The urge to walk into its warm comforting embrace was terrifying. 

On the seventh day, Lilith failed to return. I started to seriously worry on the eighth; on the ninth, I fell into such a despair that no amount of near pharmaceutical-grade Drinamyl amphetamines could lift me from it. On the tenth, a postcard arrived with four jaunty pictures of a tram stop, a fountain, a town square, a gigantic statue of a man holding up the sky and Groeten uit Rotterdam written across the front. 

On the back Lilith sent me love and kisses, explained that she’d met a splendid sailor or three and would be staying on in the Netherlands for a bit, but not to worry because she’d found a perfectly wonderful Spaniard to courier my product back to London. Thoughtfully she’d written the travel and contact details of the Spanish courier on the postcard - in plain English. 

With a heavy heart I sent Nigel out to pick up the package and when he failed to return I was not surprised. 

We live in a universe constantly assailed by the forces of entropy. Nothing good, pure or beautiful can stand up to the relentless regression towards the mean, the dull and the shabby. A minority have always striven to be a beacon in the gloom, a constant source of inspiration to those around them. Some worked through the medium of paint, or music, or literature, but I have sought to make myself the living embodiment of style and culture. 

God knows it hasn’t been easy. 

But a man should always know when he’s been beaten. That morning, as I sat in the kitchen, futilely waiting for Nigel to return, I realised that that time, for me, was nigh. I went upstairs, stripped myself down to my underwear - not nylon and not frilly, thank you, Ray - and after taking a deep breath to steel myself, donned a pair of brown corduroy trousers and a matching moleskin shirt. A pair of Hush Puppies and one of Merton’s donkey jackets completed my transformation. I looked in the mirror -  I was unrecognisable. 

Stuffing the last of my cash reserves in my pockets, I headed for the front door. I paused by the basement only long enough to ensure it was closed. From behind it came a noise that might have been a giant breathing, or water flowing, or shuttles running back and forth across lines of thread. 

I shuddered and walked boldly out into the sunlight. 

My plan was simple. Take the train to Holyhead, the ferry to Dublin and then, via a few contacts I still had, to America and freedom. 

I didn’t even get as far as Garratt Lane before I ran straight into Cutter. I tried to braout but somehow he recognized me instantly and called out my name. 

I turned, ran back to the squat, slammed the door behind me and went for the back door. There I could escape via the garden, over the wall and run for Wimbledon Park station. 

But Lead Pipe was waiting in the kitchen, with a cup of tea on the go and the Daily Mirror open to the back pages. 

‘About time,’ he rumbled when he saw me. 

Three guesses where I went next. 

I was down the stairs and into the basement corridor before I even noticed that the walls had grown a fringe that glowed with a soft golden light. I was prepared to throw myself frantically at the cellar door but I found it open. I ran inside with no brighter plan than to barricade myself inside and hope the Deplorables grew bored.

Inside the cellar was a riot of colour. The walls were arrayed with purple organza and burgundy charmeuse, while sprays of a brilliant blue habotai framed cascades of fabric woven in a dozen colours - scarlet, yellow and green - into tangles of vines, leaves and flowers. Globes of light hung suspended from golden threads in each corner, illuminating a bundle of gold and black embroidered silk suspended from tendrils of lace - like a cocoon from a spider-s web. 

Around me was a giant’s breathing and the warp and weft of a loom gigantic enough to weave the stars themselves. I could no more have stopped myself from grasping that bundle than I could have stopped myself breathing. 

The bundle was warm and squirming in my arms. I unwrapped a layer of gauzy chiffon, gazed down on my fate and was lost. 

‘Oi,’ said a voice from behind me. 

I turned to find myself confronting the sartorial disaster that were the Deplorables en masse. I won’t describe their appearance on the off chance that children may one day read this account. 

‘Can I help you gentlemen?’ I asked, because politeness is always stylish. 

‘Yeah,’ said Cutter. ‘You can give us the ten grand you owe us.’

‘Plus interest,’ said Lead Pipe.

‘Plus interest,’ said Cutter. 

‘I’m rather afraid I haven’t got it,’ I said. 

‘That’s a shame,’ said Cutter, and he turned to Lead Pipe. ‘Isn’t that a shame?’

‘It’s definitely a shame,’ said Lead Pipe. 

The bundle in my arms squirmed a bit and made happy gurgling noises. 

‘Since the money is not forthcoming, I’m afraid we’ll be forced to take measures,’ said Cutter. He looked once more to Lead Pipe. ‘Is your sledgehammer ready?’

By way of reply, Lead Pipe held up his sledgehammer and I couldn’t help but notice that there were brown stains on the long wooden handle. 

‘And Gnasher,’ said Cutter. ‘Do you have a marlinspike about your person?”

Gnasher grunted and held up a pointed lump of metal that I can only presume, in my ignorance of all things nautical, was a marlinspike. 

Cutter turned back to me and smiled nastily.

‘I’d say that you should take this like a man,’ said Cutter. ‘But that would be a waste of time.’

Never mind his rudeness, I had more pressing concerns. 

‘Shush,’ I said. ‘You’ll wake the baby.’

Cutter’s face suffused to a fine shade of puce and he opened his mouth to continue his ranting, so I twitched aside the fine damask sheet to reveal my daughter nestled in her bundle of silk and high-thread Egyptian cotton.

Her beautiful brown face broke into a charming smile and, opening her chubby arms in a benediction, she laughed - a sound like water tumbling over stones. 

Cutter gave me an astonished look and whispered.

‘Is this your…?’

‘Yes,’ I whispered back. ‘Her name is Wanda.’

‘But,’ said Cutter, ‘you can’t keep her here.’

‘She likes it here,’ I said indignantly.

‘It’s a dump,’ said Lead Pipe in a low rumble. ‘It’s not fit for human habitation.’

‘He’s right,’ said Cutter. ‘There’s damp and mould and the kitchen is a disgrace.’

‘And there’s no nursery,’ rumbled Lead Pipe.

‘And the garden is a jungle,’ said Gnasher. ‘Totally unsuitable.’

‘Gentlemen,’ I said, ‘I can’t attend to any of these details if you break my legs.’

‘Obviously, we have to deal with the immediate shortcomings of the house before we return to the matter of breaking your legs,’ said Cutter. ‘Don’t we boys?’

‘I know a couple of builders,’ said Gnasher. ‘And Lead Pipe has green fingers. Ain’t that right?’

Lead Pipe cracked knuckles the size of walnuts. ‘That’s true,’ he said. 

‘Really?’ I said.

‘You should see his allotment,’ said Cutter. ‘He has compost heaps you wouldn’t believe.’

I thought of the rumours of what exactly happened to people who crossed the Deplorables and I decided that I actually did believe in those heaps. 

‘About my legs,’ I said but Cutter wasn’t listening.

‘And there’s the roof,’ he said, and the others nodded. 

‘About my legs,’ I said louder and then wished I hadn’t, because the trio were jerked out of their dreams of home improvement and focused on yours truly in a somewhat disconcerting manner. 

‘What about them?’ asked Cutter, taking a step towards me. 

‘I thought we might reach a more mutually beneficial arrangement,’ I said.

‘What kind of beneficial arrangement did you have in mind?’ he said. 

‘There’s the matter of the way you dress,’ I said. 

Cutter pushed his face towards mine. 

‘What’s wrong with the way we dress?’ he said. ‘It’s practical.’

‘Stain resistant,’ said Lead Pipe. 

‘Yes, but,’ I said, ‘it could be so much more.’

And Wanda laughed again and this time behind the chuckling stream was the crisp snap of fabric shears and the whistling hum of the shuttle as it plays back and forth across the thread.

‘But first,’ said Cutter, waving a blunt finger in my face, ‘we have to sort out the playroom.’

And that was that. I gave up the pharmaceutical trade and opened a boutique instead. Cutter and his boys were my first customers, and while they never stopped being an unsavoury gang of foul-mouthed thugs, at least when they broke legs they were well dressed doing it. 

Merton, it turned out, had fled the squat the day we pumped out the water and, being in need of some security, assaulted a police officer so that he could spend a couple of nice peaceful years at Her Majesty’s pleasure. Lilith visited him regularly, and after he got out they ran an animal sanctuary just outside Abergavenny until their deaths, within three months of each other, in 2009. Nigel is still alive and taught cybernetics at Imperial College until his retirement a couple of years ago. 

My daughter and I never got around to giving the boutique a name. It was always just ‘the shop’ and given that we never advertised it’s a wonder that we stay in business. We’re always at the cutting edge of fashion. We were out of flares while the Bay City Rollers were still number one and stocking bondage trousers before John Lyndon had dyed his hair. We’ve moved the shop a couple of times and, while we’re hard to find, we’re always close to the river. 

So if you want to know what the herd are going to be wearing next spring, and if you can find us and are prepared to pay the price, you too can join the ranks of the stylish, the à la mode, and truly become a dedicated follower of fashion. 

END

[of-wrens-and-whirlwinds-blog]

Sometimes Speed-Dating Works

Commission for the sweetest @depressedstressedlemonzest! Commission info can be found here!

~

Temperance, called Tami, inspected herself in the mirror, and was pleased with what she saw. Ever since she’d started making her own clothes, she’d felt drawn to early Edwardian fashion, and her newest outfit showed her growing skill. With the addition of her hat and purse, she cut quite the dashing figure.

She also knew that there were few who would admire her talent with her body underneath. But honestly, fuck them.

The speed-date she’d signed up for was being held at a rather low-end cafe a few blocks over that was at least big enough to contain a steady stream of moving people. She wavered on whether to walk or take the bus… then decided to walk. It would put pink in her cheeks, at least.

Her neighbors were used to her, and stepped out of her way easily. It was when she left her neighborhood that people started looking at her oddly. She ignored it. It was like this everywhere. So what?

The cafe was crowded. The person assigning seats at the door completely overlooked Tami, until she cleared her throat politely and said, “I’m here for the date, too.”

“Oh!” He smiled, but it looked more like a wince. “Sorry, sorry. What’s your name?”

“Tami Smith.”

“Right, okay. Uhhh, you have the eighth seat down from this direction, on the left side.”

“Thank you.”

“Mm-hm.” Another wincing smile, and Tami moved on, resisting the urge to shake her head. Honestly, these fast-fashion addicts were worse than her own family.

~

Settling in one of the folding chairs provided for this occasion, she heard it creak faintly. Cheap. She rearranged her skirts and waited.

The first man wouldn’t stop staring at her bosom, and answered her friendly questions with monosyllabic answers. She did not miss his relief when the timer went off.

The second man tried harder, but he seemed put off by her outfit, and was in general rather cagey.

The first woman was braced, and immediately started making comments on how “brave” Tami was to come to one of these things. Tami was polite back, but she was very annoyed and was quite happy when the timer rang.

It was disappointment after disappointment. Not that Tami had had high hopes; mostly this was just a way to pass the time, and maybe talk to someone who wasn’t her coworkers, neighbors, or family. But this was boring, and annoying, and she almost regretted signing up.

Then a tall, muscular woman sat across from her, and Tami’s expectations cranked up several notches. Because the other woman was dressed Edwardian, too, but somewhat lower-class than Tami’s preferred wardrobe. They just stared at each other for a moment.

Then the woman grinned, and said, “I’m Kimi.”

“I’m Tami.”

“Where’d you get that hat? It looks great with your face shape.”

Tami blushed faintly and smiled. “A milliner in London. I went to stay there for work for a few months.”

“London! I’ve only ever been to Stratford-Upon-Avond, and not for long.” Kimi seemed… genuinely interested, leaning forward on her brawny forearms, her sleeves rolled up neatly and showing her muscle. She wasn’t a body-builder type, but she certainly did some form of exercise that built muscle. Tami found herself being maybe a teensy bit more interested in Kimi than she’d expected. “Where do you work, that you got to visit England?”

“I’m in marketing, but I was flown out to work on details with the sister-firm in London.”

Conversation flowed so naturally between them, and Tami found herself becoming very interested. Kimi made her own clothes, too, and thought that Tami’s were excellent quality; she was an accountant, but she worked out because sitting for so long every day made her restless; her parents had been from Laos, but moved to America for her father’s work. Tami answered in kind: Kimi’s tailoring was impeccable, her taste in time periods exquisite (they both laughed at that); marketing was fine, but it was her coworkers who annoyed her so much that sometimes during lunch she would take long walks to work out her anger; her own parents were Michiganders, born and bred, but Tami had moved because she couldn’t stand her family. They talked about hobbies, and books, and when the timer went off, they scribbled their phone numbers on napkins and exchanged them, before the next “date” arrived.

Tami felt a glow of triumph throughout the rest of the evening, and when everyone was standing and leaving, a few folks found her and offered their numbers. She took them with thanks, but she knew she wasn’t going to call them. Actually, it wasn’t until she was on the sidewalk waiting for the light to turn green that she realized she didn’t want to talk to anyone but Kimi.

“’Ello, m’lady,” a familiar voice in a terrible English accent said beside her. She grinned and turned. It wasn’t very usual for her to need to look up at other women, but Kimi was several inches taller than her. Kimi grinned back. “Can I walk you home?” she asked Tami.

“That would be delightful,” Tami replied.

They continued talking all the way to Tami’s apartment building. It was… nice. Kimi waited until Tami was inside to leave. Tami couldn’t help grinning giddily as she ascended the stairs to her floor.

When she had divested herself of her suit and put on her nightgown, she texted Kimi to ask if she’d reached home safely. Kimi replied only three minutes later in the affirmative.

I really liked our date tonight. Do you want to go for coffee next Saturday?

Tami didn’t even hesitate. That sounds wonderful! When and where were you thinking?

~

The coffee date was a success. So was the dinner the next week. So was the kiss after Kimi walked Tami up to her doorstep.

Tami’s coworkers seemed baffled when she came to work happy, and were even more baffled when she said she’d started dating.

“You just, you always seemed so work-oriented,” David said weakly, glancing at her waist.

“I can be fat and date,” Tami replied calmly, sipping her coffee.

“That’s not...” Tami met his gaze steadily, and David decided not to be even more of a dick.

But that comment got Tami thinking. Kimi had never commented on her size, whether to praise or insult, and in fact, she never even seemed to notice. Her arms fit nicely around Tami’s waist and she made room for her in crowded places as if it were the most natural thing in the world. It was lovely, and Tami was both pleased and puzzled.

They had another date planned that Saturday. A stroll through the park, and then dinner at a fancy restaurant, Kimi’s treat. Tami dressed in her newest suit, pink and peachy-gold, with white lace. Kimi was picking her up; she would text when she was there. So Tami spent time searching the internet for that glove-maker who had made those lovely silk opera gloves for her. Unfortunately, the glove-maker was not taking custom orders at that time. Not surprising, since they were now much more in demand. Still, a little disappointing. Tami would’ve liked to order some proper driving gloves for Kimi.

Her phone trilled, and she snatched it up eagerly.

I’m here! And there’s a lout by the door looking shady.

I’ll be down shortly. It’s probably Jacob. He’s always forgetting his keys.

Tami stood, fluffed her skirts, made sure of her purse, secured her hat, and swept out of her apartment.

When she reached the foyer, she found three girls whispering nervously to each other. Seeing her looking at them, they moved quickly out of her way.

“Are you alright?” Tami asked them, surprised. “I don’t recognize any of you.”

“There’s a guy outside,” one of the girls blurted.

Tami immediately straightened, and took out her phone. “Just a moment, girls,” she murmured, and texted Kimi.

There’s some frightened young girls in here. That lout might have been following them.

On it.

The slam of a car door. The door and walls were too well-made for Tami to hear words, but she definitely heard an angry male voice. And then that voice screamed, and Kimi rumbled something, and there was the sound of running and crying.

Kimi knocked politely on the door, and when Tami opened it cautiously, shielding the girls, Kimi smiled. She looked so handsome and dapper, her slightly-skewed hat the only indicator that there had been any kind of confrontation. “I broke his arm,” she said frankly.

There was a sigh of relief and a hysterical giggle from the girls behind Tami. She turned, and asked them, “Can you call yourselves a ride?”

“Yeah,” the girl who had spoken earlier replied. “We just… didn’t want to go past him.”

“Fair enough,” Kimi said. “Good luck. Stay safe.” She offered her arm to Tami, and with a final wave to the girls, they left.

They were both silent in the car for a few minutes. Then Tami asked, “Why did you break his arm?”

“I always break their arms,” Kimi replied calmly. “If a man scares or hurts a girl or woman, I break his arm. That’s how it works.”

Tami bit her lip, then asked softly, “Kimi, what happened?”

More silence. Finally, Kimi said, “I don’t want to talk about it.”

Tami nodded, and didn’t mention it again.

The walk around the park was calm enough that they both relaxed, and Tami asked about work. Kimi grimaced and said, “Oh, they’re planning to fire people. For the good of the company. If I’m not one of the lucky few chosen to be booted, I’ll be the one tasked with removing them from the system. Which shouldn’t be so hard, except our software is bullcrap.”

“That’s not fair!” Tami exclaimed, straightening in outrage. “You told me they’ve already laid people off.”

“Yeah.” Kimi took off her hat and ran her fingers through her hair. “I need to find a new job. Kinda hard, though, when you’re a giant butch and don’t care about hiding it.”

Tami snorted derisively. “Any company would be lucky to have your skills. Can you get a job as a fashion designer?”

Kimi laughed. “Yeah, sure, let me just whip out my portfolio from college ten years ago and apply to the nearest fashion house,” she joked, grinning at Tami.

“I’m not joking,” Tami replied flatly. “I’ve seen your patterns and sketches, Kimi. You’d be an amazing designer. Tell you what—we’ll start our own business. You design, I’ll photograph, and we’ll both sew. You can sell patterns, too.”

Kimi’s smile slipped, and she looked genuinely surprised. Tami tucked her hand in Kimi’s elbow and said, “Of course, we don’t have to start tomorrow. Just… think about it, maybe?”

“Yeah,” Kimi said, and her voice was maybe a little breathless. “Yeah, okay.” Then she cleared her throat, and looked away, and asked, “How was work for you this week?”

Tami snorted. “Annoying. My coworkers don’t believe me that I’m dating you. And god, Nate was so annoying about his son’s birthday...”

Kimi relaxed as Tami continued talking, and soon they were both smiling and laughing again. They almost missed their reservation, walking around the park and talking. But they arrived in time, and even though the hostess gave them strange looks, they didn’t worry. The meal was quiet, but in a safe, content way. When dessert arrived, Tami asked Kimi softly, “Do you want to come over and watch a movie tonight?”

Kimi actually blushed, but grinned. “I’d like that,” she replied simply.

Tami couldn’t help feeling smug as Kimi put her arm around Tami’s waist as they left. When they got to Tami’s building, they snuck up the stairs with a delicious sense of getting away with something. The only moment Tami realized this might have been a bad idea was when she opened her door and led Kimi in—and realized her place was a mess of fabric scraps, tailoring supplies, and pieces of paper from modified patterns.

“Oh dear,” she said, beginning to blush. “Um. Please pardon the mess.”

Kimi laughed and kicked off her shoes. “My place is far worse,” she promised, coming up behind Tami and putting her hands on Tami’s waist. She surveyed the apartment over Tami’s head, while the shorter woman blushed deeply. She really wasn’t used to such intimate positioning. “At least your furniture matches.”

That made Tami laugh, too, and she leaned back in Kimmi’s arms tentatively, smiling wider as Kimi slid her arms comfortably around her. “Yes, well, I still don’t think puce couches work with lavender walls, but it’s something.”

“It certainly is. Oh, shoot, your hat! Sorry, I squished it a little.”

“Fuck the hat. Let me get out of this rig and we can lounge around watching silly home reno shows.”

Kimi laughed again. “Sounds perfect,” she said, with such warmth that Tami found herself reluctant to ever move from Kimi’s grip.

But move she must. So she did, and hurriedly chose her most comfortable kimono before taking off her suit and hanging it up carefully. Wrapping the kimono firmly around herself, she blushed to realize that she was, essentially, in just her underwear and a bathrobe. Was that… too much?

Probably. But she didn’t think Kimi would mind.

When she exited her bedroom, she grinned to see Kimmi taking up the whole couch, stretched out and propped up on either end, with the remote on her chest. She’d taken off her jacket and her suspenders, and when she saw Tami, she blushed furiously.

“Your house, you choose,” she drawled, picking up the remote and turning on the TV.

“Wrong way around. House guest chooses program.” Tami walked over and stood beside the couch, putting her hands on her hips. “Are you going to leave some space for me?” she demanded.

Kimi grinned wickedly. “I did,” she replied, and patted her stomach.

It was out before Tami could stop it—“What if I hurt you?”

Kimi snorted. “Unlikely. If I can pick you up, you won’t hurt me.”

“You can’t pick me up,” Tami accused, trying to ignore the tingles of happiness.

A sigh, and Kimi sat up, stood, turned to Tami—and picked her right up, arms firm around Tami’s thighs. Tami yelped, and then laughed, and smacked the back of Kimi’s shoulder lightly. “Alright, alright, you win! Put me down!”

“Fine, fine,” Kimi sighed, and put her down, gently. But then she swept Tami up princess-style and plopped back on the couch in her former position, cuddling her host firmly and comfortably. Tami hid her face in Kimi’s collar to hide her increased blushing and frankly giddy smile.

“What show do you want?” Kimi asked, picking up the remote.

~

Three months later, Tami woke to Kimi stroking her hair thoughtfully.

They’d started spending more time at each other’s apartments, and agreed to call each other their girlfriend. It had been a while for both of them, but this was… a good thing, that they had. Tami closed her eyes again and smiled as Kimi kept running her fingertips through Tami’s hair. Maybe they could sleep in some more. It was Sunday, after all. Five more minutes.

“Tami?”

She wrinkled her nose, but answered, “Yeah?”

“I’ve been thinking. About what you said a few months ago. About… starting our own online business, with clothes and stuff.”

Tami was instantly awake, and leaned her head back to look up at Kimi’s face. “You have?” she asked, surprised. She had thought Kimi had forgotten.

Kimi frowned a little, but nodded. “I was thinking… maybe you’re right,” she said slowly. “Maybe we could do something like that. Not full-time, I don’t think we could manage that, but… as a side thing.”

Tami smiled, slowly. “Kimi, love, that would be fantastic!”

Kimi smiled too, small and hopeful. “You think so?” she asked.

“Absolutely!”

“Good. Then we’ll do it.” Kimi kissed Tami deeply, then asked, “Shower or breakfast first?”

[hopelessromanticspoonie]

The Angel’s Share - Ch. 6

Chapter: 6 of ? (Find Chapter 5 here)

Rating: PG-13

Summary: Kate settles into her room at Allerdale, and she and Thomas share a quick and unexpected moment before dinner.

Permanent taglist for hopelessromanticspoonie (open): @vodka-and-some-sass​ @he-is-chaotic-she-is-psychotic​ @nonsensicalobsessions​ @myoxisbroken​ @blah666 @brokenthelovely​ @myworddump​ @polireader​

Taglist for Angel’s Share (open): @rjohnson1280​ @alexakeyloveloki​ @villainousshakespeare​ @wolfsmom1 @arch-venus25 @tamstrugglestowrite @trickstersteve

A/N: If you are bolded, you could not be tagged. If you wish to be added to the taglist, please contact either of us or leave a comment!

Co-written with my splendid sister-from-another-mister, @yespolkadotkitty​

Hot damn.

He had absolutely no right to look that delectable doing something so mundane - and downright disgusting - as mucking out horse stalls. Her eyes drank him in greedily, following a bead of sweat as it trailed down the column of his neck to the hollow of his throat, before spilling down the porcelain planes of defined muscles of his torso and disappearing beneath the waistband of his jeans. The barest smattering of black hair extended from beneath his belly button to disappear beneath his trousers, matching the patch of hair between his firm pectorals. For such a slender man, he was much more muscular than she expected, built with an underlying strength that was more agile speed than brute force. Not that she had thought about him half-naked. Not at all.

Pulling herself from her momentary lapse of judgment - she was not attracted to the posh Baronet - Kate painted a smirk onto her face, shifting her weight onto one hip. “Well, you had to get all of the bullshit that comes out of your mouth from somewhere.”

He shook his head, a smile tugging at one side of that gorgeous poet’s mouth, pushing back a few sweat-dampened locks of hair from his face before tugging on his shirt. All the better, as she couldn’t let herself get distracted by his almost unmarred, marble-pale complexion. “Where is Eddie?”

Adjusting her grip on her duffel bag, she couldn’t help but roll her eyes. “Well, he spread his plague to half of the staff, so he had to stay behind and work the pub. So, you’re stuck with just me this weekend.”

The look in his eyes as he walked over and easily took her bag from her made it seem like he wasn’t too upset at the turn of events. “I’m sure we’ll manage somehow. Come, I’ll show you to your room and then I can give you a brief tour of the house before dinner? With it becoming dark soon, I planned to save the tour of the rest of the facilities for tomorrow.”

She tried to snag her bag back off of his shoulder, but he angled his body away with a shake of his head. Not wanting to fight a losing battle against the long-limbed man, she shoved her hands into the back pockets of her jeans and fell into step with him. “Sure thing, Fabio.”

He quirked his brow. “Fabio?”

Her chocolate brown eyes danced across the sprawling landscape, trying to imagine a young Sir Thomas Sharpe running around just as Gideon had been earlier - perhaps terrorizing Lucille just as his tiny doppelganger upon her arrival. It was a pleasant image in her head, and the small smile that had graced her face at the thought remained when she shifted her attention back to her companion. “You know, that guy from the romance novels? My mum used to read them. He’s an American. Always shirtless, with long hair, ripped chest all oiled up as he tenderly embraces the swooning damsel in distress.”

“I can’t say that I’m familiar, but I do appreciate the comparison,” he winked, holding open a side door, waving her inside.

The interior was just as grand as the exterior, with towering ceilings, intricate chandeliers, and hardwood floors that had to be original. She followed Thomas up a grand staircase, trailing her hand up the smooth handrail, imaging years and years of Sharpe’s doing the same. This was not a world that she belonged in, one of old money and place settings with too many pieces of silverware on them. The history practically oozed out of the walls, taunting her with elegant crown molding and creaking floorboards.

He followed her into the room that was to be hers for the weekend, setting down her duffel on a cushioned leather seat on the end of the four poster bed. “Through that door is an ensuite, which should have everything you need for your stay. The balcony is private, but the French door can stick sometimes. There’s a stone outside you can use to prop it open so you don’t become trapped out there. Dinner and drinks will be,” he paused, glancing at the wide-faced, leather-strapped watch on his wrist briefly, “in about one hour. I’ll come collect you around then to show you where the dining room is, if that’s alright?”

“Sure thing,” she replied, propping her hip against a dark post at the corner of the bed. “Thanks, Thomas.”

A look of pure shock flashed across his face before he could replace it with polite indifference. He cleared his throat, backing towards the door. “Until then.”

Once the door was shut behind him, she took in the room with a critical eye. It was nice, the wooden furnishings sturdy and oiled, the mattress yielding but firm beneath her as she sat down to kick off her boots. Through the windows she was given a view of the back garden, which didn’t look wild, but wasn’t meticulously maintained, either. Perhaps she could sit out there later at night, see what the sky looked like without the bright London lights to dim the brilliance of the stars.

Humming quietly to herself, she set about unpacking her clothes, hanging them up in an antique wardrobe in the corner that looked as if it could take her to Narnia if she looked hard enough.

Her entire flat could almost fit in the large bedroom and ensuite bathroom. Even sparsely furnished as the rooms were, it wasn’t hard to imagine them full to the brim with gaudy decorations to match the faded wallpaper on the walls, fancily dressed women tittering to themselves in fine clothes about their men off hunting on horseback.

She felt like a time traveler, unpacking her toiletries onto the white marble countertop in the bathroom, glancing at her reflection in the large gold-framed mirror before her. She didn’t belong here, with her cheap flannel and worn blue jeans. Running a brush through her thick caramel hair, she mentally shook herself. Who was she trying to impress by freshening up? Certainly not Thomas, and she didn’t know what to make of Lucille just yet; the enigmatic woman was a puzzle for sure.

A knock sounded on her door, pulling her from her inspection of her heart-shaped face, making her brush clatter to the counter loudly. “Shit. Coming!”

Tugging on her flannel, she padded to the door, having spent so long looking about and lost in her own thoughts that she hadn’t thought to decide if she should change. Wasn’t that something that posh people did? Wear nice clothes to impress absolutely no one of importance, risking ruining them with a spilled bit of sauce? She tugged open the heavy wooden door, finding Thomas standing on the other side, running a hand through his damp obsidian curls. A few wayward locks curled around his jaw, kissing his freshly shaven skin. Damn.

And he wore another bloody henley, forest green this time, complimenting his creamy skin and raven hair. He smiled, a relaxed, warm expression, taking in her unchanged outfit save for her mismatched black and white socks. Bergamot and citrus wafted over her as she stepped out of the room, skirting around him so close that her arm brushed his chest. She was acutely aware of the brief contact, but refused to acknowledge why that might be.

“To dinner, then? You must be hungry after such a journey,” he swept his arm down the hallway, azure eyes twinkling brightly. “And if you are thirsty, I hear that an excellent whiskey is produced on the estate that I’m sure you will enjoy.”

She walked in the direction he suggested, crossing her arms beneath her chest. “So, there will be whiskey served besides Crimson Peak?”

*****

Thomas chuckled. Kate was a spitfire. He’d seen a softening in her today, though. He knew it. A tiny chink in her extensive armour for sure, but he’d seen it. They reached the staircase and he offered her his arm, elbow out in invitation.

“You’ll be offered a choice of mixers if you find the taste of the whiskey is not to your liking.”

She gave him the side-eye, but he saw a smile ticking up at the corner of her mouth, her eyes dancing with amusement. After a moment’s further hesitation, she slipped her hand through his arm and he walked her down the stairs as if she were a grand duchess attending her debutante’s ball.

“What is it?” he asked, when she cleared her throat, clearly mulling over whether to speak.

“I can’t figure you out, Thomas,” she said eventually, her voice soft as they reached the last stair.

He glanced at her face, her profile delicate. His name in her voice sounded like an invitation to sin. “Really. In what sense?”

“You don’t act…rich.”

“And how should I act?” he asked, genuinely curious.

Kate slipped her hand free of his elbow and looked up at him. The low light from the ancient chandelier at the foot of the stairs touched on her hair, picking out the gold in the warm honey-brown of her locks. “You shouldn’t be like this. Kind. Hardworking. Friendly.”

He lifted a hand to tuck a stay lock of hair behind her ear. “Who put the shadows in your eyes, Katherine? I’ve a mind to rough them up.”

“Thomas, I-”

“Uncle Thomas! Missus Kate!!” Gideon barrelled into the back of Thomas’s legs and he stumbled. Automatically Kate’s arms shot out to steady him and he grabbed on to her, pulling her close. The lines of their bodies fit together perfectly, and Thomas breathed her in, the faintest hint of strawberries and the freshness of soap in her scent. The whole contrary package of her made his heart thump wildly. Her effect on him made itself known further down his body too, and he made himself think unsexy thoughts to refrain from making either of them uncomfortable. His jeans were a bit too tight as it was.

“I beg your pardon.” He drew back, steadying himself, but he’d seen the quicksilver flash of want in her eyes when they’d accidentally embraced.

“No worries, GQ.” Kate slid her palms down her jeans. “Hey, Gideon.”

The boy grinned up at her. “I’ve been making aeroplanes! Wanna see?”

“After dinner, Gideon,” Lucille called out as she appeared in the dining room doorway. “Hello, Kate. Settled in all right?”

“Yes, thank you,” Kate said stiffly.

Lucille led Gideon through to the dining room by the hand. Thomas leaned in to Kate and murmured; “She’s all bark and no bite, I promise. She’s reserved.” When Kate smiled, he added, “Remind you of anyone?”

Kate rolled her eyes. “I’m not taking your bait, Sharpe, no matter how low you dangle it. I’ve been on a train for two hours with nothing but mints and I’m starved. Let’s eat.”

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The life time of your own leather sofa will depend on what you purchase inside terms of your life style. An advanced developer and in the process of upgrading an office type area next nubuck will be your best choice. If you have a household than pigmented would be best suited for the needs you have. Pigmented leather is strong and durable and are designed for the knocks that kids tend to hand out. Sofa Beds made from top grain leather is claimed to last a lifetime as opposed to split cover which has a life expectancy of about A few years. Doing a little research on the various sorts of leather sofa beds on the market will ensure that you decide on the right one.

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Film 'Greed' urges fashion fans to rethink fast buys  LONDON

Moviegoers may scorn the billionaire fashion bosses in "Greed" which opens in Britain on Friday but anti-slavery activists said anyone who buys cheap clothes risks fuelling factory abuses. The film by British director Michael Winterbottom, starring Steve Coogan, takes aim at high-flying moguls whose lavish lifestyles, yachts and parties are built on sweatshop labour.

"The extreme wealth (that) Greed's main character accumulates at the expense of exploited workers is not as far removed from us at it seems," said Joanna Ewart-James, executive director of anti-slavery organization Freedom United.

"Our own bulging wardrobes indicate how this has become an almost $3 trillion industry, lining the pockets of big business and not the 60 million-plus garment workers - who earn as little at $21 a month," she told the Thomson Reuters Foundation.

Campaigners said they hoped the film would draw attention to the stark contrast between the lives of fashion retail owners and their staff - and encourage consumers to think more carefully about their choices.

The advent of fast fashion, with consumers buying and quickly binning cheap clothes, has exacerbated the risk of forced labour in global supply chains as factories come under ever greater pressure from leading brands, activists say.

Director Winterbottom said his inspiration for the film came from a conversation about the "colorful character" of British billionaire Philip Green, whose Arcadia group owns a string of fashion chains including Topshop.

Green's greed and disregard for corporate governance led to the demise of British high street store BHS and cost 11,000 jobs, British lawmakers said in 2016, calling the collapse "the unacceptable face of capitalism".

Coogan's character also faces parliamentary scrutiny over his business dealings and throws an extravagant party on a Greek island - echoing Green's infamous multi-million dollar birthday celebrations attended by A-list actors, models and pop stars.

"We're using the likes of Philip Green to raise the subject of this kind of exploitative slave labour that makes people rich," said British actor and comedian, Coogan, who is best known for his television character Alan Partridge.

"People involved in this world, they sleep like babies. It doesn't bother them," Coogan said, describing how surreal it was to shoot on a luxury yacht and then in a Sri Lankan garment factory where people earned $4 a day.

Green was not immediately available to comment.

Comedian David Mitchell, who plays a journalist in "Greed", said filming in garment workers' homes with "no plumbing and very little space" was a memorable experience.

"It's a pretty grim place to live," he said. "And obviously that's all about the rate of pay, which is dictated by market forces unrestrained by governments."

Jakub Sobik of Anti-Slavery International said films like"Greed" were important in highlighting the exploitation of vulnerable workers in the fashion industry.

"They could play a big role in making people aware of the problem and demanding better from businesses and governments," he said.

About 25 million people are estimated to be trapped in forced labor, the United Nations says.

[gojiro]

The Vinyl of the Day is the movie soundtrack album of ‘The Rocky Horror Picture Show’, 1975, red vinyl version. The original theatrical show was very successful, but Rocky’s real success didn’t come until after the movie was released, and after it’s initial run certain theatres began showing it as a ‘midnight madness’ program, where audience members bring props such as toast to throw when characters call for ‘a toast’, rice to throw during the wedding scene, spray bottles of water and umbrellas for the rain scenes, etc. There are a few really fun and well-performed songs (’Sweet Transvestite’ and the famous ‘Timewarp’ for example). Most of the film’s appeal is that it’s colorful, over-the-top characters, and it’s overt eroticism poking fun at social mores of the day, with incredibly outrageous and sexually free people (Dr. Frank and his posse) interacting with incredibly uptight and sexually repressed people (Brad and Janet). Of course, the whole movie is built around the tour-de-force performance by Tim Curry, absolutely the greatest role of his career — I doubt that without him, the phenomena of the show would have ever reached it’s cultural status. 

My first experience with it was in high school, at a downtown Hollywood theater showing — and even though I admittedly wasn’t very enthralled by the movie itself, I enjoyed the participation aspect, and many of the costumes were very inspiring to my young punk sensibilities and wardrobe! And it was stunning to see such wild characters in such a free state of rebellion right up there on a movie screen.

To be honest, I feel this is a terrible movie to watch alone, but a great movie to watch with a crowd.The album also is really only interesting if you're already a fan; ‘Rocky Horror’ is all about the color and the characters, and it desperately needs the visuals to go with it. If you’re going to watch it, invite friends and have lots of alcohol available. And don’t be afraid of wearing sexy lingerie. And you should really read about the history of the audience participation, here’s a link to the Wikipedia article;

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Rocky_Horror_Picture_Show_cult_following

AllMusic Review by William Ruhlmann

For the 1975 film version of The Rocky Horror Picture Show, American producer Lou Adler wisely mixed the best of the London and Los Angeles stage versions, shooting the movie in England with Tim Curry and several of the other original cast members, plus Meatloaf (years before Bat Out of Hell), and Americans Barry Bostwick and Susan Sarandon as the innocent couple Brad and Janet. Adler also brought back original London stage musicians in place of the slick studio musicians who had marred the L.A. cast album. The film version resequenced the songs and reassigned some of the vocals, with Brad’s song “Once in a While” dropped. But it all worked out fine. The strings that were added to ballads like “Science Fiction/Double Feature” only improved them; the rockers rocked out; Bostwick and Sarandon proved to be the best Brad and Janet ever; the original cast members, especially Curry, reveled in the opportunity to immortalize their portrayals; and Rocky Horror’s potential as a witty parody of cheap movies, rock & roll, and sexual mores was fully realized. The film soundtrack album became the definitive version of the score, despite lacking the songs “Planet Shmanet Janet” and “The Sword of Damocles.” The Rocky Horror Picture Show was not successful in its initial theatrical run, but then a strange thing happened. In 1976, the Waverly Theater in New York’s Greenwich Village began showing the film at midnight on Fridays and Saturdays. Soon, a cult of repeat viewers began turning up every week; they began to dress like the characters, call out their own comments at strategic moments, sing along, and add their own theatrical effects. The phenomenon spread across the U.S., with fans rivaling Trekkies and Deadheads for loyalty and eccentricity, and The Rocky Horror Picture Show took on a life Richard O'Brien never could have anticipated.