Wrinkle

Thought i’d give this one a go, its late, i’m tired but wanted to try. Enjoyfullsizeoutput_1028

Wrinkle

Wednesday morning. It was the eighties, and I make no apology for it, but I was probably 12 or 13 and had just discovered the one bus that travelled into Leicester per week: 8:15am, and back to Bruntingthorpe 1:15pm. Not much time to get much done really but that was the way of my little world then. Myself and Magga would take this bus with some cash jangling in our pockets and a pack of fags between us and go from the tiny smoke to the relatively big smoke.

One time, there was an awful fashion hanging like a poisonous smog over us and we wished it gone, but to look trendy was to look trendy and even though I preferred a    T-shirt,  some pin strip jeans and  pair of Woolies trainers, I had to stomach the chinos and espadrilles. I like to be near water on holiday;  espadrilles are a shit invention. Chinos and wrinkled pastel coloured shirts was the issue; my shirt was pastel pink and of course wrinkled. I had a sherbet yellow cardigan too which as I write makes me shudder. My memory of the cardigan was spilling a pack of 10 Marlboro from the plentiful folds in front of my folks when I thought i’d dropped them somewhere else and lost them. That was the moment my smoking was confirmed to them, that and the future wrinkled  upper lip.

Loads happened on those trips to Leicester, I’d like to say I was buying cool music, but it would have been 5 star or Matthew Wilder. I did discover Howard Jones, Ultravox and then Depeche Mode at around the same time, and the medium I chose was not cassette, no it was vinyl and for that I am forever happy.

On one day, probably after the first washing of the pink pastel shirt, when I came to put on the pink pastel shirt I found it to be almost an entirely different beast. Mum had taken to it with an iron, no more wrinkles and probably therefore I could get back into my t-shirts and my pinstripe jeans; £9.99 from Irish.

 

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