I am dressed like a biscuit in my soft baggy beige cords and oatmeal Finisterre fleece. There’s a man a few metres away from me, on the overground train to Gospel Oak, who brought his own chair with him. It looks vintage and well-used and the tatty suede cushion is biscuit-coloured, like my clothes. He’s announcing the origins of his found-chair down the phone, to a friend, while making eye contact with me. He looks like he goes to art school and seems to be enjoying what he perceives to be my attention but I am not interested in him, I am interested in the way the chair matches my clothes and whether if I sat on it, I might officially turn into a Nice biscuit, or a triangular slice of shortbread.