When I got outside and on my way to the evening rush-hour shift, there was a steady sleet falling, which made me feel better about the godawful hat. Sleet’s death to hairstyles, and there’s nothing sadder than a droopy mohawk. Especially when there’s someone you’d like to impress. I’d put my leather trousers on special, and doubled my body weight with all the studded gear I was wearing. I was going to take the hat off once I got inside the station, but then I thought, ah, sod it. It’d dry faster on my head than off.
So I hopped on the Northern Line, filled my lungs with the heady aroma of burnt diesel, and rode down to King’s Cross, catching a few more smiles than usual from people who glanced up from their Kindles or their copies of the Evening Standard. Seems a six foot punk is a tad le
