Once upon a time, I was a Bristol University student and one day I was in a busy bar, drinking. I was wearing my new red shirt (pictured), a real bargain, reduced to £5 in the sales.
Halfway through the night, I noticed that a boy called Henry was in the bar – an acquaintance whose name I knew and face I recognised, but who I’d never really spoken to. But this time, I couldn’t ignore him, for he was wearing the exact same red shirt as me. Being a bright and attention-grabbing kind of shirt, I knew he'd soon notice me too. I tried my best to ignore him and returned to my drinking.
Due to the constant movement of people in the bar, it wasn’t long before me and Henry found ourselves standing next to each other. How embarrassing. To try and stop the ridicule already pouring forth from our friends’ mouths, we complimented each other on our excellent taste in clothing and agreed to avoid each other for the rest of the night.
Five years later, it's summer 2005; I’ve moved away from Bristol, and left the student life for the world of work. I’m living in a house in London with four friends I met post-Bristol. I have a hangover. I get out of bed and wander into the lounge. I have no idea how or why, but lying on the floor, with an unidentified redhead next to him, is Henry.
"Hello," I say, surprised. He sits up, blinking away the sleep. He’s wearing the same fucking red shirt.