Go out to the New Cross Road, my child. Near to the college of the goldsmiths. Seek deep, between kebab shops and charity shops, past the William Hill where men still go to look unhappy and lose what little they have left in the desperate quest for what they had when they started. The rain is falling, my child. Don’t slip. The buses drive wild here. The cars drive wilder. Be smart. It is there if you look. Nestled among the many train stations.

Look in the windows. Not where the man in sandals digs in the sofa for change. Not that window. Go to the east. Further. Past the angry family. Yes, my child, do you see it now? Do you see it reflecting, glinting, glowing, flowing? That is where you must go, my little one. Through the door at the sign of the Prangsta. Tinkle the bell. Tinklytink. Go in. In, and swiftly. Speak to the creatures within. There you will find the transformation you seek.

The floors are varnished wood. Hanging on the walls are feather headdresses, antlered masks, Valkyrie wigs, the helmets of gods, the wings of angels. If you cross their palm with silver they will make you fabulous.

I went there today, my beloved. They dressed me in hose and a shirt of great beauty. And also a pink crinoline, a bustle, voluminous skirts and a necklace to die for. A hat with a feather. A fine silken mantle. They offered a wig of fine ginger hair but I knew it was too much, too much, too much. I have now a fine transformation awaiting. I need to get lashes. And maybe some make-up. But I’m a happy bunny, my beauty. Oh yes.

Meanwhile the creatures of Prangsta sew and sew. They make clothes from the things we throw away. They make them rich and bright and strange, like you, my beloved, like you. They also know that they provide things of beauty, and price themselves accordingly. As we all must remember to do.


I have worked at events where all the waiters are dressed from there, and they look beautiful, powerful, woodland, strong and mysterious. Their work steps the whole event up a peg or two. They are the ultimate hipster costume service. But they are good creative people doing it for love, and they’ve got it all so right. I’m thrilled with my costume. Last time they made me a bondage Henry VIII. This time I’m steampunk drag Thisbe. And it’s great. And that was my day. Dayjob morning. A magical journey to New Cross in the afternoon. And then returning home to THAT email. Two jobs. Same company. Both drowned. They keep getting me in. They keep not using me. It’s getting so frustrating, and it’s punctured a hole in my hopes for the summer. I was buoyed up on my lovely costume fitting but then I got blindsided by a very lovely email with precisely 0 bananas.

So rather than prowl round my flat spitting the word “idiots” with clockwork regularity every five minutes, I went for a half price rump steak that I can’t really afford, accompanied by Brian and Mel. Now I’m home with the cat, and the firm resolution that I will find something to do in that period that will make me say “Thank God that gig fell through.”

Anyway, until tomorrow, my little pumpkins. Until tomorrow…