I witnessed a most distressing metamorphosis.
She was sitting opposite me on the Tube.
45 of her finite minutes spent applying 28 different cosmetics to her perfectly fine face.
She was stunning when she sat down: at Oakwood she was pre-coke Kate, fresh-faced, glowing, gorgeous.
She left the train at Hammersmith as a Kardashian Klone, cartoon contouring and clown lips, garish.
At the ticket barrier I said to her, “You are so beautiful, you really don’t need all that makeup.”
She scoffed and replied, “Try telling my boyfriend that.”
I was too overwhelmed with pity to say anything else.
