Florence is not only home to some of worlds greatest fashion houses, it boasts their respective priceless archives and museums. This night, by the quiet full moon, I got the Gucci Museum almost all to myself. Set over 3 levels, I took my time taking in all the history, craftsmanship and distinction Gucci has become so iconic for. And at the end, in their bookshop slash cafe, enjoying a coffee over the abundant collection of fashion publications, made it one of my favourite days in Florence this winter.
There are people we grieve twice in a lifetime. Once for who they were. And once for who we were never allowed to know. My father is one of them. When I was a child, my mother told me he was a paedophile. She didn’t whisper it. She didn’t hesitate. She said it plainly, as fact. As warning. As control. When we misbehaved, she would drop us at the greyhound station and force us to spend sleepless weekends with him. I remember the noise of the station. The way my stomach would knot. The terror that would sit in my chest at night when the lights went out. I was absolutely terrified to sleep. He was a workaholic. Twelve-hour days. Long hours. Absence disguised as provision. He would leave cash on the bench, stockpiles of food in the fridge, and the television on - a wild luxury I couldn’t enjoy because fear had already moved in. At home with my mother, we weren’t allowed a TV at all. Looking back now, my father was unemotional, but never unkind. He didn’t ask questions. He didn’t offer hims...

