Velvet and Wool: The Language of Contrasts in Fashion

Fashion speaks long before we open our mouths. Its most fluent dialect may not be colour or cut, but texture is the silent language of touch. It’s in the brush of cloth against skin, the way fabric folds, clings, or holds its distance. Before anyone registers hue or silhouette, there is sensation. Texture is what we feel before we process what we see. And in my opinion, few pairings articulate this more poetically than velvet and wool — two fabrics often stitched into the same winter wardrobe, yet speaking in such opposing registers that one might imagine them from different worlds entirely.

Velvet invites. It is the fabric of candlelit evenings and heavy curtains, of faint perfume and rooms you can only enter if you know how to speak in whispers. It absorbs light, catches it, releases it only in glances. To wear velvet is to flirt with nostalgia, its weight carries the decadence of another time and the intimacy of something kept close to the skin. There is something beautifully unnecessary about it, as if its only real purpose is pleasure. It is, in many ways, a luxury of softness: unapologetically decorative, almost too much, and all the more captivating for it.

Wool, meanwhile, is the opposite of indulgent. It is sharp, architectural, Protestant in temperament. Where velvet drapes, wool builds. It shapes the body into something clean, precise, intentional. There is a kind of authority in wool as it speaks in the cadence of uniform, of order. Yet it is not unfeeling. There’s comfort there too, especially in heavier weaves: warmth in place of warmth, protection that doesn’t have to announce itself with flourish. It’s the silent partner to velvet’s drama — the quiet one with a spine of steel.

To dress in either is to announce more than a preference for warmth. It’s a choice about how one wishes to be read: fluid or firm, opulent or restrained, yearning or anchored. And in that choice, a language unfolds — not spoken, not written, but worn.

Velvet: A History of Touch and Tension

Velvet has always belonged to rooms with secrets. Its fibres absorb more than just light, they seem to trap memory. It’s the kind of fabric that recalls a scent, or a sigh, or the softness of something forbidden. You find it in places where silence matters more than speech: in confessionals and cabarets, in drawing rooms where women smoked with deliberate indifference, in backstages thick with talcum and intrigue. It’s not a fabric that clamours for attention. Instead, it waits to be noticed like a glance held just a second too long, daring you to wonder what it meant.

Historically, velvet was the language of exclusivity. It began with silk — expensive, painstakingly loomed, often imported through colonial circuits underlined with violence and profit. There was nothing democratic about early velvet; it was labour made tactile. In Renaissance Italy, the cloth was carved with shears and pressed with wooden stamps, creating depth and ornament out of shadow. It appeared in portraits of princes and popes, in state rooms and sanctuaries, in places built to remind others that they didn’t belong. Even now, centuries later, velvet retains some of that power — its lush pile, its gravitational pull. It insists, quietly, on your attention.

But the fabric’s allure isn’t simply in its costliness. It’s in its contradictions. Velvet is at once heavy and inviting, dense and ephemeral. It doesn’t move easily but when it does, it leaves a wake. Its surface shifts like water when brushed in different directions, rippling with light or mood or memory. There’s something voyeuristic about its sheen: it reveals while pretending to conceal. And in this friction lies its seduction, not in exposure but in the promise of it. Velvet teases the eye as much as it comforts the skin. It drapes, but it also conceals. It swaddles, but it also signals. It is the invitation and the boundary at once.

In fashion, velvet has rarely been casual. It’s the fabric of entrances — of capes thrown over shoulders in Parisian dusk, of opera gloves that speak in glances rather than gestures. It connotes theatre, not in the sense of costume, but in the sense of presence. It has been worn by queens and rebels, by glam rock stars and off-duty poets. Prince wrapped himself in it as if it were a second skin. Oscar Wilde favoured velvet smoking jackets as if the fabric itself were an aesthetic thesis. Even in the club scenes of the 70s and 80s, velvet slipped between the lines of gender, worn by queer bodies that understood its codes intuitively. There’s something about velvet that resists binary. Too soft to be rigid, too dramatic to be merely feminine, too tactile to be neutral.

And yet, for all its association with opulence, velvet is not immune to reinvention. Crushed velvet, the kind found in thrift stores and the backs of suburban closets, carries its own kind of nostalgia. It speaks in the language of adolescent experimentation: a high-necked top worn to a sixth-form party, a burgundy dress paired with combat boots and eyeliner smudged with intent. It doesn’t care for pedigree, only atmosphere. In the 90s, it became the fabric of the almost-famous, the misfits, the melancholic girls who scrawled journal entries with urgent italics. Velvet, even at its most affordable, still knows how to perform.

More recently, designers have played with its juxtapositions: pairing it with latex or denim, cutting it into sharp silhouettes, deconstructing its historical weight. Schiaparelli cast it in new proportions. Haider Ackermann gave it masculine edge. There’s a kind of pleasure in watching velvet misbehave — stripped of its preciousness, pushed into strange geometries, refused the role of the obvious romantic. Even then, it doesn’t lose its tactility. It continues to speak in suggestion.

You don’t forget the person in velvet. Not necessarily because they were the loudest in the room, but because they made the air shift around them. Velvet stays with you. Like the echo of a thought you weren’t supposed to have. Like a ghost that smells faintly of cloves. You may not recall their name, but you’ll remember the feeling — how the light caught on their sleeve, how your fingers almost reached out without permission.

Because that’s what velvet does. It speaks not to the intellect, but to the nerves. It is memory made fabric. And it never quite lets go.

Wool: The Architecture of Restraint

Wool is the pragmatist’s fabric. No fanfare, no seduction. Just form, structure, and the silent discipline of materials that know how to bear weight. I think it is the textile equivalent of punctuation: clean, consistent, purposeful. If velvet whispers, wool asserts. It is what we wear to be taken seriously — shoulder-padded, sharply cut, pressed into submission, and folded into ceremony. Where velvet is made to catch light, wool is built to deflect it. Its purpose lies in presence, not performance.

There is a kind of architecture to wool. Not merely in tailoring, but in the way it scaffolds a body. Blazers, peacoats, trench coats, pressed trousers…they frame. Wool creates boundaries. It outlines the form without romanticising it, draws borders around the self as if to say: here I am, and I will not be moved. There’s a reason it’s the fabric of uniform: military, clerical, corporate. It communicates purpose before personality, and in its folds are entire institutions: school halls, courtrooms, boardrooms, pews.

Yet wool’s rigidity isn’t the same as coldness. There’s warmth in it, literal and symbolic. It is the fabric of weathering things — of braving drizzle and deadlines, of hands stuffed into pockets, and of shoulders hunched against wind. There’s intimacy in that resilience. In the Sunday coats that appear each winter like old friends. In the jumpers mended with mismatched thread by someone who didn’t say “I love you” out loud, but knew how to stitch it quietly into sleeves. Wool remembers function. It is never precious, but it is always prepared.

Historically, wool travelled along trade routes marked by both empire and industry. It clothed shepherds in the Scottish Highlands and bankers on Threadneedle Street. It warmed soldiers on battlefields and schoolchildren on frosty mornings. Its fibres were combed and carded in mills powered by rivers and silence, stitched into the economy of towns that lived by the rhythm of looms. Wool was never about status. It was about survival: made to last, to layer, to hold.

And yet, in its restraint, there is elegance. A charcoal suit worn with quiet intent. A navy overcoat that falls just so. The elegance is not in adornment, but in proportion. In the way seams are pressed, pockets hidden, buttons chosen with care but without flourish. Wool does not demand attention, it earns it slowly. Through consistency. Through longevity. Through garments that aren’t trend-led but time-held. A good wool coat can outlive a whole chapter of your life and still feel right for the next.

Designers have understood this discipline, and played with it. I think of Phoebe Philo’s Céline: clean lines, heavy fabrics, silhouettes that didn’t ask for approval. Or Yohji Yamamoto’s wool tailoring, draped like shadows across a city street. Even in more experimental hands — Comme des Garçons, Junya Watanabe, or Jil Sander — wool remains grounded. It doesn’t lose itself. It’s the canvas that anchors. The structure that allows disruption to mean something.

And perhaps that’s the hidden beauty of wool: it absorbs contradiction without collapsing. A double-breasted coat worn over a sheer slip dress. A pair of tailored trousers styled with a sequined halter. Wool lets other fabrics misbehave. It gives them something to push against. There’s tension in that, and also safety. It becomes the quiet counterpoint to extravagance, the base note in a perfume of more volatile scents.

I’ve always had a soft spot for wool blazers with unexpected buttons — vintage, gold, something tactile. The sort of thing that doesn’t shout but lingers. Shoulder pads that don’t overwhelm, but suggest presence. It reminds me of the way my older brother used to dress for special occasions: too formal by teenage standards, but he liked how a good jacket made him feel less porous to the world. I understood that. Sometimes structure is the only way to feel grounded. Wool offers that: not a barrier, but a shape to move within. A way to exist more definitively, if only for a moment.

Wool may never shimmer or seduce, but it holds. It anchors. It outlasts trends, arguments, even affection. And maybe that’s its quiet power: not to astonish, but to endure. Not to dazzle, but to remain. In a world of constant flux, there is something deeply comforting about a fabric that insists on being exactly what it is. Nothing more. Nothing less. Just wool, with its clean seams and hidden strength. A lesson in restraint, folded neatly against the cold.

Contrasts: When Softness Meets Structure

Pair velvet with wool and something subtle begins to hum. It’s not noise, not theatre. It’s vibration — low, deliberate, sustained. One fabric pulls inward, the other stands tall. The softness of velvet against the geometry of wool forms a dialogue that feels strangely familiar, like the texture of a complicated thought. It’s not about balance. It’s about tension held just tightly enough that nothing falls apart.

For instance, the cut of a velvet lapel sewn onto a blazer of worsted wool is serious: angular shoulders, a nipped waist, the quiet self-assurance of good tailoring. And then that lapel, soft and black and plush like a sigh in the middle of a sentence. It interrupts the clean lines not to destabilise them, but to remind you there’s a person underneath the scaffolding. The body inside the jacket has not disappeared into uniformity. It is still there, sensitive to touch.

I’ve always loved that moment where clothes become emotion — not costume, not declaration, but something internal made visible. A velvet mini skirt, full and lush, paired with a fine wool turtleneck. It’s monastic and decadent at once. The skirt sways like memory. The jumper holds like reason. It’s not a look you wear to be seen, necessarily. It’s a look for being understood. Or, more accurately, misunderstood with intention.

There is something about these pairings that feels architectural in the best way. Not like buildings, but like rooms: spaces built to contain both grandeur and quiet. Velvet introduces softness not as weakness, but as depth. And wool offers structure not as rigidity, but as care. The two together suggest a kind of emotional maturity — a willingness to be tender, but not unguarded; elegant, but not exposed. It’s what a good conversation feels like when neither person is posturing.

Designers know this, of course. You see it in the understated drama of Haider Ackermann, those sharply tailored coats with velvet collars that catch the light just enough to suggest a secret. Or in the Mugler silhouettes of the ‘80s: power suits softened with velveteen panels, built for presence but touched by indulgence. Even Margiela, in his quieter seasons, understood the poetry of texture against texture: when a thick wool coat is thrown over something so soft it nearly disappears beneath it.

But it’s not just about high fashion. It’s in the way we dress for winter dinners. The impulse to ground a satin camisole with a wool coat. The instinct to let a velvet scarf peek out from beneath a structured jacket. These aren’t decisions made for the mirror. They’re made for the interior self — the version of you that wants to be held and hold composure at the same time.

There’s also an honesty in this combination. Wool by itself can feel too composed, like it’s performing reliability. Velvet by itself risks indulgence, slipping too easily into artifice. But when they’re paired, they check each other. Wool anchors velvet. Velvet softens wool. You end up with something recognisably human: restrained, yes, but textured. Complex. Full of contradiction and elegance that’s hard-won rather than inherited.

When I was younger, I used to pair a velvet bolero — short, almost costume-like — with an old men’s wool overcoat I found at a vintage market. The coat swallowed me whole, all broad shoulders and heaviness, but the velvet curved at the collar like a secret I hadn’t told yet. It made me feel armoured and vulnerable at the same time, which is, in many ways, how I still dress. It’s never just about aesthetics. It’s about self-permission.

And that’s what this pairing allows: a self not reduced to singularity. Not just soft, not just strong. Not just performative, not just protective. Velvet and wool are not opposites, they’re reflections caught at different depths. One catches light, the other absorbs it. One says, come closer. The other says, not too close. And in that contradiction is something tender. Something careful. Something that feels like truth, or at least something adjacent to it.

Because sometimes the most intimate declarations are stitched into contrast. A softness framed by strength. A quiet that insists on being heard. And a wardrobe that doesn’t settle for clarity, but instead wears complexity like a second skin — one fibre at a time.

Fashioning Duality: The Queer Aesthetic of Textural Blends

For many queer dressers, texture is biography stitched into surface. Velvet and wool, when combined, speak in dialects that evade neat categories — camp without costume, structure without surrender. These fabrics have histories, baggage, moods. Wool speaks with clipped consonants, all uniforms and respectability. Velvet lingers on its vowels, humming with candlelight and ceremony. When placed together on a body that refuses the script, they begin to misbehave in the most exquisite way.

A femme in a pinstripe wool suit with a velvet lining the shade of dried blood is not seeking permission. She is not dressing for your comfort. She is scripting a different language entirely, one that reads poise in sensuality and sees elegance not in adherence, but in deviance. There’s nothing ironic about the pairing. It is deliberate. A queer eye looks at those textures and finds pleasure in their friction.

Queerness has always lived in the in-between: between genres, between silhouettes, between the expected and the utterly unbothered. Texture becomes a tool not simply of styling but of subversion. Wool, with its echoes of menswear and propriety, becomes something else when worn over bare skin, when reshaped to exaggerate hip or shoulder. Velvet, once the preserve of royal courts and bourgeois parlours, becomes radical in the hands of someone who refuses to apologise for how good it feels.

There’s something deeply camp, and deeply clever, about the union. Not in the exaggerated sense of feathers and sequins (though there’s joy there, too), but in the precision of the gesture. A velvet lapel against a crisp wool coat. A crushed velvet flared trouser beneath a rigid trench. These combinations flirt with codes and then shrug. It’s not about rebellion. It’s about irreverence — the art of knowing exactly what’s expected and deciding, with a wink, to do it sideways.

Because texture carries implication. Velvet asks to be touched but remains just out of reach, queer longing at its most elegant. Wool, meanwhile, speaks of intent. It stays in place. It covers. It defines. Together, they mirror the queer experience of constantly composing and decomposing self. Of walking into a room and knowing your body might be read in conflicting ways, but dressing so that those readings collapse under their own simplicity.

The pairing also queers time. Velvet evokes opulence, boudoirs, perhaps even decadence gone slightly sour. Wool is present-tense, contemporary, even utilitarian. Together they create a temporal glitch: a look that holds both glamour and grit. The drama of old cinema with the stance of someone who knows how to navigate the cold. It’s no surprise that so many queer icons — Prince, Bowie, Leigh Bowery — played with that balance so well. Their wardrobes were never accidental. They were soundtracks made visible.

Even in today’s runway landscape, the most interesting silhouettes are often born from this textural collision. A wool coat with velvet trim in a silhouette that reads neither femme nor masc, or both. Trousers that hold the shape of workwear but are cut from plush velvet, built for movement, but flirt with every step. These garments invite touch and deflect it all at once. They’re worn like riddles, like glances that linger a second too long.

To dress in these contradictions is not to resolve them. It’s to find comfort inside their tension. That’s part of the queer project, really — not tidy answers, but open-ended expression. Velvet and wool ask different questions of the body. One wants to be felt; the other wants to define. When worn together, they refuse hierarchy. They propose instead a choreography: softness brushing against precision, gesture wrapped in silhouette, seduction stitched to discipline.

And the joy is in the refusal to pick a side. To be buttoned-up and unruly. To flirt with gender without having to resolve it. To walk into a room in a velvet-lined wool suit and know that nothing about it begs for understanding. It simply is. A beautiful, deliberate contradiction. The kind you wear not to explain yourself, but to remind the world that you were never meant to fit their pattern anyway.

Couture and Craft: Tailors of Tension

The most interesting designers understand that fashion is rarely about balance. It's about tension. Not the kind that strains, but the kind that vibrates — subtle, deliberate, the hum beneath a well-cut jacket or the hush that follows a velvet drape. Couture, in its purest sense, has always been a site for these oppositions to meet. It lets them flirt, argue, embrace.

Elsa Schiaparelli, long before fashion was spoken about in post-structuralist terms, understood that fabric could disorient as much as it could decorate. Her wool coats became canvases for surrealist gestures, there were embroidered eyes, anatomical flourishes, and buttons that winked. She didn’t romanticise the body; she reimagined it. Wool, with all its rigidity and wartime practicality, became a surface for the absurd and the opulent. The tension wasn’t just conceptual, it was tactile. A felted military silhouette interrupted by satin appliqué or a flash of crushed velvet where a collar should be. These were garments made to be worn like riddles.

Then there’s Mugler, whose vision of femininity was anything but soft, yet never cold. His tailoring had bones — architectural, exaggerated, unapologetically sculptural  —but he understood the theatrical power of a plush gesture. Velvet panels tracing the hips, a bustier carved from navy wool with black velvet piping like shadows made permanent. His suits were never just about power dressing. They were about seduction at right angles. What might have been armour became something closer to art deco erotica.

In contemporary fashion, the dialogue continues often more muted, but no less potent. The Row has mastered restraint as a kind of romanticism. Their silhouettes are monastic, their palettes hushed, but the tactility is everything. A camel wool coat cut so cleanly it feels like an exhale, lined in silk velvet that only the wearer feels. Their clothes whisper rather than declare, but their use of texture is precise: cashmere so fine it dissolves on the skin, structured wool trousers paired with velvet loafers, turning minimalism into something sensory.

Dries Van Noten, on the other hand, treats texture like memory. His collections often feel like collages—  velvet brocade spliced with utility wool, embroidery stitched into denim, jacquard patterns that look like they were pulled from forgotten wallpaper in a grandmother’s house. A Dries coat might carry five histories at once: colonial silhouettes, punk tartans, Eastern floral motifs, all grounded by the familiar heft of wool. He doesn’t shy away from nostalgia, but he never lets it become costume. The velvet-trimmed sleeves or contrast cuffs feel like clues, small elegies stitched into contemporary life.

These juxtapositions matter not because they’re clever, but because they feel familiar. A velvet lapel on a winter coat can summon a memory more vividly than a photograph. Suddenly, you’re eight again, sitting stiffly in an opera house beside a grandparent, fingers brushing the plush of your seat, skin prickling under wool. You remember the echo of the singer’s voice more through the feel of that coat than the music itself. Texture has a way of binding us to place, to people, to feeling. Designers who understand this are not merely making garments. They are building emotional architecture.

And there’s something deeply cinematic about these contrasts, too. I think if a wool cape lined in velvet: both battlefield and ballroom. A shape that demands space, but moves with hush. It recalls old films where heroines wore cloaks with secrets sewn inside. Or think of the way velvet pools at the hem of a sharply tailored coat, the way it catches light while the wool absorbs it. The eye moves across these surfaces like a camera across a face, lingering where softness breaks through severity.

Even accessories become stages for these tensions. A pair of wool gloves with velvet cuffs. A structured handbag in sueded leather that feels almost too soft to hold. These aren’t statements; they’re scenarios. They invite the wearer to step into character — not one already written, but one shaped by fabric and friction.

To blend velvet and wool is not just to mix materials. It is to speak in layers. To wear contradiction like perfume, subtle but lingering. The designers who do this well are less concerned with trends than with storytelling. Their clothes read like short fiction: precise in their detail, open in their meaning.

And the stories they tell are not tidy. They are textured. Because elegance, at its most compelling, is rarely clean. It’s composed through opposites — through conflict, through memory, through touch. Wool holds the form. Velvet holds the feeling. Together, they make the silhouette not just seen, but remembered.

Wearing Contradiction: Personal Reflections 

I’ve never really trusted colour. As much as I do love certain colours on me, I do find that sometimes it says too much, too loudly. Or perhaps it’s that it tells a story I’m not always ready to hear. Texture, on the other hand, whispers. It brushes the skin, catches the light, folds into silence. Texture is intimate. It has memory. The fabrics that have lingered in my life the longest — velvet, wool, silk worn soft with time — have all said something truer than any palette ever could.

I remember the first time I wore a velvet blazer. Midnight blue, double-breasted, slightly too big for my shoulders. I slipped it over a high-collared wool blouse. It was crisp, tailored, slightly androgynous, and something inside me clicked. It wasn’t about looking good, though I suppose I did. It was about feeling like both a question and an answer. Armoured and exposed. As if I’d stepped into a version of myself I hadn’t fully met yet, but recognised instantly. There was a pleasure in the contrast — the way the blazer caught light like a secret, the way the blouse resisted with its clean, sharp lines. A quiet duel. A private alignment.

Since then, I’ve sought that same feeling in clothes: a feeling not of completion, but of coherence in contradiction. Later, I was gifted a Mugler jacket. From Fall/Winter 1998. Sculpted like a piece of architecture, carved from navy wool that felt almost stern. But at the cuffs, a curve of black velvet — so deep, it didn’t absorb light; it swallowed it. That jacket was pure theatre. A shoulder silhouette that said I know exactly who I am, and cuffs that murmured, but don’t get too close. It became my favourite contradiction. My most elegant form of ambivalence. Every time I wore it, I felt like I was narrating a story with no plot, only mood.

There’s something seductive about wearing opposites. Softness set against structure. A velvet scarf tossed over a stiff peacoat. A sharply tailored dress with a lining that whispers against the skin. These pairings don’t resolve anything. They allow space for all the selves that surface in a day. The one who walks into a room needing to be unreadable, and the one who, in the same breath, wants to be seen entirely. Some days, I wear wool because I need to hold shape. On others, it’s velvet because I want to fold, lean, leave a trace.

I think texture is also a way of marking emotion without saying a word. Grief, for instance, always feels like wool. Heavy, structured, inevitable. Something that holds you upright when you’d rather collapse. Long black coats in December. The kind that swallow you whole and make you look composed while you’re unraveling inside. Velvet, by contrast, feels like nostalgia. The kind that doesn’t hurt anymore but still tastes of distance. Like sitting in your grandmother’s old chair, surrounded by shadows and perfume.

There’s also something queer about dressing in contradiction. Not queer as in flamboyance, though that has its place, but queer as in unfixed. In-between. When I wear a velvet skirt with a wool turtleneck, I’m not blending masculine and feminine. I’m refusing to separate them. I’m not styling myself to be legible. I’m dressing for the mood underneath the mood. Texture allows that. It lets ambiguity feel deliberate, almost elegant. And isn’t that what queerness so often is? The art of making uncertainty look like design.

I’ve found that the garments I reach for again and again — the ones I pack with me, guard closely, lend only to lovers — are always the ones that carry contradiction. A silk shirt with stiff French cuffs. A boiled wool coat that feels soft only at the collar. These are not just clothes. They are memoirs I’ve written in fibres. They remind me that identity isn’t fixed, and it certainly isn’t tidy. It’s layered, stitched, darted. Seam allowances hidden beneath linings. Every garment an unresolved sentence.

To dress in texture is to speak in subtext. To pair velvet with wool is to say: I bruise easily, but I still hold form. I long, but I endure. I bend, but I do not break. And maybe that’s what elegance really is — not the absence of conflict, but the art of wearing it well.

Epilogue: The Grammar of Texture

Fashion’s most enduring language has always been tactile. The eye notices colour first, but it is the hand that remembers. Velvet and wool, so often shelved in the same seasonal aisle, speak fluently in metaphors. They are less fabric than feeling. Velvet is a sigh, a dream at dusk, a hush that settles over candlelight. Wool is infrastructure, morning discipline, the scaffolding of composure. One wraps you in memory; the other braces you for weather. In a world that demands clarity, they murmur in nuance.

Worn together, they tell a story not of resolution, but of cohabitation. A wool coat with a velvet collar doesn’t compromise, it converses. It understands that the modern body contains multitudes: softness housed in architecture, form swayed by feeling. To dress this way is not about perfection, polish, or polish pretending not to be polished. It’s about carrying both the ache and the armour. Velvet traces the echo of touch. Wool offers shape to hold it.

There’s something almost grammatical about how texture punctuates a look. Velvet functions like a comma — an indulgent pause, an invitation to linger. Wool is a full stop, definite and calm. Together, they form syntax. An outfit not just composed, but written. And what is fashion, if not a body’s attempt to narrate itself? Each day, we draft ourselves into the world: sometimes guarded, sometimes tender, always somewhere between.

To wear velvet and wool side by side is to accept that you are still editing. Still refining the tension. It’s not about settling contradiction, it’s about learning to inhabit it with elegance. Like all good language, texture works not by solving meaning, but by stretching it. And somewhere in that stretch, in the quiet friction between softness and structure, a life begins to feel legible. Or at least lived-in. And that’s enough.

S xoxo

Written in London, England

24th April 2025