Changing at the Transvestites. 

A long bike. At least six people are behind me. I steer us downhill, to a roundabout. The brakes barely work, and we take the corner at high speed. On the hill, a market and fair. I wander stalls. I buy a grey suit, a white suit, and some matching shoes. I leave the market at the top of the hill, then realise I’ve not tried my suits on. I head back down, into a stall run by a transvestite. He regularly lets me use his changing room. Big mirrors. The suits look great. I try on a weird Victorian chastity belt, it’s cumbersome and uncomfortable. I take it off. I chat with the transvestite, now dressed as a man, in his front room. His landlord charges him PRS rates for every lead synth sound he uses. He’s being ripped off. He does a great impression of someone playing the recorder, and harmonica. 
We leave. Outside, I help my sister in law sort the recycling. A man from Siberia shows us how. My brother drives me home, through the rain, on a vehicle that is just a platform and lights. 


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