Winter Blazer ELIZABETH GIBSON

Elizabeth Gibson

Winter Blazer

It was my second week of work, I got the afternoon off last-minute, went to Primark, down into the men’s bit, tried to be casual, perused, until at last, I found the suits. I slid in and out of each, trying to show no fear, no hesitation: I belong here, I told myself, I have every right.

It was all still so new and tender, being out, having a job and money, being in the city. I had never known I could use a men’s changing room. I chose my suit, stood in line, paid, and off I went with my paper bag. I got the train to York for a poetry night, borrowed someone’s scissors

to cut off the tags, stood in my blazer that fit so well, to share poems of blood and whales, and stars, and my queerness, tentative and brave. The next night was the work Christmas do: a loud, fancy restaurant, the women in dresses, elegant; me in my suit, orbiting, holding my own.

We drifted from club to club, to 80s songs, and I slid from my shell. I was mistaken for a guy in one place, kept from the ladies’ cloakroom. I wouldn’t hesitate to go out in my suit now, but I remember that time, that winter, when everything was so new, and kids – it can get better.