We all have that shirt. The shirt we can’t part with. The one that looks like you just walked through a forest of razorblades, a warehouse full of tea-puking kittens and 10,000 lumens of unprotected UV. Your lucky shirt. The shirt you were wearing when they said “yes”. The shirt you were wearing when that cheque came in. The shirt you were wearing when the sun came up and you were going to be ok. The shirt on your back when the brakes suddenly started to work again.

This isn’t that shirt. But hell – it certainly looks like it.

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