I’ve finished art school and I’m back in my mums house. AH, London! London! Our delight. I sink into my old bed, trying not to masturbate just yet. I look up at the glow-in-the-dark stars on the ceiling then over to the shelf stacked with books and CDs, which all still hold crucial evidence of life and ideas transcending suburbia.
What Difference Does It Make? The door to my room still has the psychedelic stickers and skater signs I’m not sure I’d own up to anymore. I placed them there in my early teens but I’m old enough now to feel distanced from the person I was only a few years before. Next to the bed is a Copa Mundial shoebox spilling out with the remains of my messy teenage life: pin-badges, photos of now under-aged girls and boys, ticket stubs for football matches where I learned what it meant to truly believe in something. You are my Chelsea, my only Chelsea, you make me happy, when skies are grey.
Looking around the room I see all the things that I was and the now-so-cringey culture of the person I so wished to be. I’m starting to remember all the songs that made me smile, the songs that made me cry. Who the fuck are we? / Just the boys in the city / Its all been done before and we'll do it again / So, well, see you later you alligators.