Admittedly the floor is his wardrobe sometimes – life’s too short to hang everything up – but then his clothes were built to last: he likes the way they age, and spends more and shops less. He likes to make out that he doesn’t think about clothes much, but of course he does. He likes it when the fit is on loose side: he finds a comfortable reassurance in the slight excess of fabric.
He’s a late riser, a freelance illustrator, and never leaves home without his laptop and graphics tablet. Theoretically the world is his hotdesk, but he usually ends up in this tiny nameless backstreet café round the corner that does great coffee, a short cycle-ride away. His change jangles loosely in his pocket. Occasionally he’ll drop off the radar for a week or two, but those who know him well know better than to worry – out of the blue they’ll get a call from him from the other side of the world: a job came up, or he met some girl. Every time he heads out, he never knows when he’ll be back or where his journey will take him: he measures his success by the randomness of his life, as this is all he ever wanted.
