Visions of a life where I don’t recognise myself at all.

It’s funny how one day you look up to see a stranger - cliche as it is. We spend years chasing the ideals and airs of a perfect ghost that is openly rumoured about; we’re given slips and hints of how to become them: change regimen, styling, attitude, ignoring the fact this ideal changes as quickly in their eyes as it does in our own. You stress and wonder over the perspective of others, how their gaze reaches you, confused over their raw instinct at the idea of you. Simply what do I look like? Oh god, is that how I sound? Oh Christ, is that what you thought?

Forcibly removing these thoughts can prove fruitful. Just pretend you don’t care; it will work itself out. Indulging in nausea at the image of yourself is a silly waste of time, it’s frivolous to examine your own persona so closely - at the end of the day it’s not your business to know others’ opinions of you.

But you’re sat on a train, a tube train, on some weekday evening back from some charity shop in some town centre at the end of some line, opposite some person wrapped in wool and eyes glassed like beads, of course.

And suddenly they look up and grip their gaze in yours and a rush of unfamiliarity hits you. They’re some distant cousin, some friend of a friend. Maybe you were served by them this morning and watched the movements of their careful hands lazily. But now, sitting opposite you in outside clothes, ultimately a complete stranger. You both raise a chin in challenge, set your eyes, and blink.

They have fluffy, clouded hair. Cheekbones. There’s heavy jewellery in all the places my mother would enjoy, winking kindly. Her eyes are dark and deep set. Her mouth, also frowning slightly, but pale against the stretch of her face.

How did she get Dad’s jacket?

I know I insisted I never would - but I’m a hypocrite and a liar until the very end. It’s not my fault - I change my mind so quickly and subtly that it’s often hard to keep up, until you nonchalantly glance at the rear view, then the map, just to realise that the best route ended up being the road you told them would be full of traffic.

Opinions are like dinner plates. We serve them out to the guests of our establishment quietly and with purpose, later only to take them back humbly, empty of flair and crusted with crumbs. The strongest hog roast of statements are left out for clearing, and as the hours pass and the meat is hacked apart it’s later taken away. The issue is the bowls of ice cream and yoghurt, considered as a dessert, a final stamp - but left until sour and dry, lumped and discoloured. The table is empty, the seats long cleared and yet this stupid bowl remains. Full to the brim of rancid milk and soggy wafer; gloopy, squashed fruit. Past its hour of need or want or relevance, the waiter refuses to collect it, leaving it to hold its place on the stained tablecloth instead.

I am too often found with my apron. Sneaking into the kitchen and adjusting a plate’s presentation with the line cook- placing garnishes with a well trained precision beyond my years. Then I bring them out, a ceramic octopus armed with spoons and forks and napkins. I serve up statements and tidy them down, offering alternatives and lighting candles.