every so often i take a long hard look at my pale reflection. i look at my bluish, transparent limbs, restored to colour only by the constellation of bruises acquired from various injuries (war wounds really…) i look at this pasty, pallid complexion, every blemish on display, every line and crease pronounced. i remember all those holidays in exotic locations, forced to sit under the shade or layered up in trapeze-style dresses. the locals eyeballing me suspiciously, muttering under their breaths, brushing past me as if my pale force might signify witchcraft or sorcery. this white, irish skin, this cursed cloak. and then i look at this picture in V magazine. and laugh.