After my daily session trawling the internet I’d like to ask the question… ‘Where is the trump’s tailor?’ Which leads to more questions, Have they been disappeared? Isn’t there someone who could stop that poor, pathetic, demented, millionaire, narcissist, would be dictator, leaving the house and stumbling about in those appalling ill fitting suits?
Apparently not.
I think the person in charge of making his ear look like it was shot has also been ‘lost’.
Sartorially speaking I have recently had cause to take a look back at my early 1980’s self and friends. Having done so, the question may be asked, who am I to pass judgment on anyone’s clothing choices?
But that was then.
This trip down Wardrobe Street, which incidentally runs parallel to Memory Lane, just off Hairdo Avenue, was brought on by contact after many years with a beloved art college flat mate. Veda and I remained friends for a long while until work separated us and life carried on without mobile phones or the internet.
Our initial re-contact was while Veda was at the hairdresser’s. I hastily sent photos. I always try to be helpful, or was it a warning? Or a dare? It’s hard to say.
It appears that our ability to talk shite for hours has not diminished over the years between our last meeting and our most recent. In fact life may have further honed this skill.
In addition to filling in the gap years, we have of course re run elements of our young lives. We reminisced fondly about the idiots we were and how enjoyable life was in the ‘family’ we built.
One revisited episode involved us sunbathing on a fire escape outside a toilet window, wearing strips of fabric tied around our selves mimicking beach wear. At some point in the day we were eating spaghetti bolognaise. One of Veda’s tits escaped its binding, a tit with a taste for classic Italian cuisine apparently. This all took place in full view of the street where we lived. In hindsight there are many questionable elements to this. Sunbathing in Belfast? That unlikely notion does go someways to explaining the lack of suitable sunbathing gear. Using a toilet windowsill as a table? That may never be satisfactorily explained. However, the most inexplicable thing is the bolognaise.
Who made the bolognaise? I can’t remember either of us being that capable in the kitchen.
fat tart 