I first started to notice it on the Overground. As I made my way towards Victoria Park for the first night of All Points East on Friday, I began to feel more and more self-conscious. With each stop closer to Hackney, every other person who stepped on the train seemed to resemble some kind of glowing Amazonian goddess on the way to a secret London fashion week pre-party, or a mass open-call supermodel audition.
I looked down at my own outfit which, until I arrived in E9, I had thought was pretty de rigeur, and even verging on over-dressed. Now, my knee-high black boots seemed positively primordial, and bland enough to bore at a funeral.
