I was in the bustling centre of the city, at a sale in a popular high street clothes store. The floor was strewn with discarded shirts and trousers.
I came across a black jumper, a turtleneck, and held it up, stroked it, put it in front of my body, held it against me, cleverly using my chin, then turned towards the mirror.
I looked fantastic. Like a French intellectual.
In the long queue for the till, I had a while to ponder this assessment. I soon realised I actually looked like a total twat. Aghast, I ducked under the barrier and threw the jumper on the floor, running out of the store and hurriedly getting a train back to my town.
On the journey back, I had a lot of time to rethink my decision. Maybe I didn’t look a total twat – maybe I looked great. This could be the start of something for me… And it was reduced to £9. Why didn’t I get it?
My next action made me think I had gone a little insane.
The train arrived at my stop – I got off. I went to the other platform, and went all the way back to the city, back through the crowds, back to the shop, found the jumper still on the floor, cradled it in my hands and made the purchase.
On the journey home again, I had a thought – would people think I thought I was Steve Jobs? I needed something else to ensure they knew I was more like Foucault or Sartre. This iPad would not do. I decided to purchase some “Gitanes” and “Vermouth,” whatever they were.
Back at the flat I had the evening to muse upon the nature of my existence. As I modelled my turtleneck in the mirror, I wondered if it was all worth it.
I dragged on a Gitane, coughed profusely, and decided it was.