Post-Apocalyptic

As you probably know (no point pretending that people I don't know read this), I have been quite sartorially steampunk recently. Not proper steampunk, pure steampunk, but more steampunk / military / Agatha Christie novel / explorer. Tweed and buckled boots. Goggles and caps. Cropped leggings and waistcoats. Jewels from the depths of ancient temples, and big floomfy skirts.

But there's another look that's been hovering in my mind for nearly a week, and I don't know why.

I want to be post-apocalyptic. Black and grey and dull greens. Layers and layers, patched and worn. Fingerless gloves. A satchel and sturdy boots.

I want to be the character who knows their way around the post-apocalyptic world. Not the protagonist, but the one who helps them when they stumble across this wasteland. The one who can spy the dangers and read the signs. The one who's scavenging and has cobbled together a rudimentary generator. The one who's quick and surefooted and knows the terrain.
Because, despite their almost inevitable death, they're always the coolest character.

Sometimes we walk home on the path through the golf course. It's bounded by trees and tangles of rosehips, nettles, brambles and grass. We can see the odd glimpse of a person on the fairway, and we can hear noises, faintly, from the road at either end. And sometimes we pretend that the world is different. We hear a siren in the distance, and know it's the ten-minute warning before the darkness comes. We move quickly, keeping watch for the movements of the creatures beyond the bushes. We eye the compound to the left, making sure that there is no-one there.

I wouldn't want to live there, but it's a fascinating place to visit.