“What the fuck is that twat with a laptop doing?”
Ah, Grimsby charm, you’ve got to love it. Bet it’s some idiot in a beany and shoes far too high-grade for the sweatshop turtleneck he’s draped across a frame sorely lacking sustenance other than the outrage of the internet.
Except it wasn’t. He was talking about me.
And in that moment I felt homeless.
Now, I’m not trying to spin a “woe is me, I don’t belong anywhere” story. I grew up in a town (and family) of little sympathy for people who whine and moan about how bad they’ve got it.… [continue reading]