Jodphur · 23 July 2001
I dream of falling through the portholes of Victorian cruiseliners, of the smell of camphor and sandalwood, musty corsetry bursting from drawers of lacquered mahogany, of barley water and whiskey and thin potato soups; passageways echoing with backslaps and chirruping debs, of Priss, Pip and Boy and the career in the City awaiting, awaiting. Oh privilege! Oh empire! One day some twat named Ralph Lauren will champion us!
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