Head jogs

So I’m in the hairdressers watching my brother’s bag and coat, and I walk out and wander into the bargain clothes store, which smells of stale cigarettes and has yellow Ralph Lauren hoodie jackets with the labels sewn on the outside.  Then it’s 10th Planet, where a camp retail assistant tells me that the Chunk t-shirts with K-9 on them in silver cost £19.99.  I go back into the hairdressers and sit down, the water cooler has run out and it’s hot but I want to keep my Boutique of Leathers jacket on.  I fall asleep because I don’t want to play SPV Invaders anymore, and I awake to the hairdresser asking my brother if ‘that gentleman is with you’.  He smiles and admits that I’m his brother.  Maybe I should comb my hair, I’m not sure.  I smile, too, think about maybe mumbling something and cross my legs instead.  It’s hot in the shop, it’s a relief when we leave and get back to the Comet retail car park.  I’ve spent my holidays testing out my hesitant driving skills in the superfast Fiesta and my brother’s 306, Ludacris and Dre on the JVC stereo, fighting over which track to play, and guzzling about ten espressos a day to fight the dull ache that completely clouds all my senses.

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