The other morning, as I was making my way down to the train platform at Highbury & Islington, I spotted someone I knew and was keen to avoid. I like him, but neither of us would have wanted the small talk. Unfortunately, the commuter tide herded us together until I was practically stalking him. Wearing a distressed military-surplus bomber, dark-blue boot-cut jeans and a Balenciaga Rodeo bag left flung open, he had a strut that made his boots land with an assertive thwack on the ground. I, meanwhile, followed like a child troll, lumbering under the weight of an enormous bag and wearing scuffed-up trainers. Something I’d been thinking about for a long time crystallised there: I want to incinerate every last sneaker I own. I want to walk with authority. I want people to hear me before I ent

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