Dalston Junction Overground, Thursday, 2pm.
A vision, Readers, of post-modern middle class cultural commodification in crisis.
Two twin sets of bleached cropped locks; two shag-pile gilets; four naked knees poking rudely through factory-produced holes; legs poured into punishing denim corsetry and crossed in perfect symmetry
Blood supply, it would seem, is dangerously compromised.
Like sartorial biomarkers, edgy footwear is all that stands between them and the precipice of certain identity death. One - sporting ironic silver winkle pickers; the other - post-ironic Ellesse runners, lest, presumably, they get themselves confused.
Blonde 1 sighs into a hair toss that communicates untold hardships.
'....Yeh so they're threatening to put the house back on rent?'
Blonde 2 [visibly bored]:
Blonde 1 [pouting]:
Blonde 2 [expressionless]:
'So - like. Can you not, like. Make a call and just say, like.’
[Latent muscular spasm in forehead suggests Botox fighting frown impulse]
‘You know — is this not your life?!'
Blonde 1 [inspecting nails]:
‘I knooow. But Steve - our broker - he reckons it'll be fine. It’ll BE FINE. But it’s just, you know, soooooo annoying?'
Blonde 2 [pouts while rummaging for compact]:
Blonde 1 [applying lipstick in her phone’s reflection]:
‘I’ ‘ike ‘oooo ‘stressed, 'ou know?'
[Pause. Almost frown. Almost pensive].
[Suddenly remembering reply is warranted]:
'And, like. Yeh. I mean. I'm sure it's fine.'
'Yeh. 100%.' [Returns to phone reflection]
'God I really need to get my roots done.'
Blonde 2 [pouts]: