In darker moods I tell myself I am getting way too old for this shit. Perhaps I am. As you may have heard, last weekend I was in a fist-fight in a local bar. I was verbally confronted and punched in the face for hitting on some random chap's girl. Admittedly I went too far, drunk on gin; I own it.
On the side of my face I sustained a deep 5cm gash, which, I can confirm, is healing into a prominent scar. "That's gonna leave a mark", as the wits tell me, and I dare say they are right. That, and a thrice-broken nose and blonde beard--along with a demeanour not reminiscent of that of a pretty boy or metrosexual--have all the indications of an angry thug, as one of my chums calls me. An angry thug in tailored suits and bespoke London-made shoes, I reply.
How did this happen? I was raised in exceptionally privileged circumstances, both in this country and abroad, about which I am quite open and for which I make no apologies. But, as diligently as I have tried over the years, I absolutely do not fit in. Nor, if I am honest with myself and with you, do I want to. It simply was not meant to be. The modern world is a constraint. We were meant for higher things. I am cutting my own path.
By this mark, I suppose, they shall know me.