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Capitalistic guilt? Ecological dread? Or just too many clothes?

A few notable things happened yesterday.

While at Shoreditch House I yanked and yanked at a sliding metal door until my face went red, only to have a staff member explain that what I’d taken to be access to the swimming pool was in fact welded shut. Looking at my phone on the train home, I found that because I was once distracted by a video of a gurning loon jumping into a gorge attached to an elastic rope, Instagram is now feeding me endless videos of gurning loons jumping into gorges attached to elastic ropes. To cap it off, when I arrived home, there was a fox sitting on my doorstep eating a Swiss roll.

Perhaps for you, none of this is especially noteworthy. However, once I’d shooed the fox away and shovelled its dirty pudding into the bin, I came to a completely unrelated but nevertheless important realisation.

I’ve reached peak clothing.

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