Chapter 5

“And your hat,” Aunty Mags added, making to get up, so I pulled it out of my pocket and shoved it on my head quick, before she could jam it down tight and maim the mohawk for life.

The skies were clear as I walked to the Tube station, showing more stars than there were last-minute shoppers hurrying through the streets with bags in their hands and desperate looks on their faces. A pity; a bit of torrential rain—or maybe a small tornado—would’ve given passers-by something else to think about than my ridiculous get-up. As it was, I had to endure the stares and the shouts of “Oh my God, call the fashion police! There’s been an explosion in an Oxfam shop!” I didn’t answer; just held my head up high and prayed my silver fox would turn out to be colour-blind.