They say the first step is admitting you have a problem. Later you can confess in full, make amends, ask everyone’s forgiveness and a higher power for help. But the first is the public confession, so here goes, deep breath. My name is Katie and I am a hipster.
When did I do my first ironic thing? Was it when I wore my Christmas jumper in January? Bought myself a pink Barbie snapback cap? Spent a week living on baby food? Or filled my flat with inflatable furniture? Or deliberately misunderstood the notion of irony so I could make a joke about Alanis Morissette?
If I’m honest, I’ve been denying the signs, but they’ve been there for ages. The wardrobe of Eighties prom dresses, skinny jeans and American Apparel leotards. The bookshelf of Chuck Palahniuk books. The evenings at pop-up restaurants, hot-tub cinemas and Duran Duran-themed club nights that were advertised on stickers in real-ale pub loos. The vintage-feel Instagram posts. The fact I own a onesie, a Lego necklace and a limited-edition yellow Game Boy to play Tetris on. That I both hate and secretly aspire to look like Zooey Deschanel.
I eat out like a hipster: drinking Orangina cocktails from jam jars in cafes on the rooftop of multi-storey car parks where other punters arrive by tricycle. I frequent places mainly with ampersands in their name and exposed concrete walls where food comes served on a slate or wooden chopping board.
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