The end of the summer holidays is famously a time of reckoning and personal revolutions. I managed to complete a cross-country European trip while narrowly avoiding mandatory quarantine. I drank red wine and spoke bad French with hot étrangérs while roaming the streets of Paris. I had short walks and long drinks on beautiful Italian beaches. I ran errands in small independent Neapolitan shops. I walked to and fro in the big travel corridor that is life and now I’m back in my East London double room that’s really a single room with a double bed and a bedside table that’s really an Ikea chair with a table lamp and a box of expired Kalms tablets. I’m standing in front of my overflowing wardrobe. That’s usually the place where big life-altering changes take place. It’s a war zone, the sublimation of months of chaos and disorder. Three piles of trousers and shorts and sweatpants. A chest of mismatched socks. A shelf packed with woollen jumpers and baggy sweatshirts. In my tradition of havin