It’s four in the afternoon and I’m wearing a black silk shirt and black velvet trousers. I feel fabulous. The trousers were purchased in NYC, shortly before I boarded a plane heading home after burying Dad. I didn't wear them for ages though. Instead I shlumped around in the same ensemble for months, jeans and polo shirts and baggy jumpers and Dad's Khmer Navy reunion cap. I didn’t care what I was wearing, as I walked my grief around town. The other day I pulled the trousers out of my wardrobe, unworn since that day in the shop over three years ago. So soft, capacious, and comfortable, it suits recumbent activities, i.e. lounging and reading and wilting softly. It is also an emblem of desire, a reminder of my consistent urge for the beautiful, even in the worst of times; ideal lockdown fashion.

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