On the first day, walking along a grey corridor and hearing the excited chatting of lots of people in a small room, I wore a stripy woollen jumper, mustard coloured baggy Indian trousers, and my hair in a pleat down my back. I saw across the room, my still dear friend, in red denim dungarees and a navy blue polo neck, throwing back her head in laughter. I sat near R who told me he was a goth.
Six years later, I walked up the wooden hill M had helped me construct for an inaugural exhibition. In plastic birkenstock clogs, pink velvet tight capri trousers, a brown thin chord new-Biba-label puff-shouldered jacket and newly cropped hair, S looked at me and smiled.
Around Garnethill K wore a black PVC raincoat with knee high boots to match. For her birthday last year in Spain, I bought her leopard-skin patterned mules.