Peaky Blinders

I have a woolen coat, and it is the coatest coat of all—it flows elegantly to about 20 centimeters above the ankles, with a black silk lining that emits a soft swishing sound as it brushes against the suit worn underneath. When the double-breasted buttons are undone, the hem flutters with each step; when fastened, the long, slender design beautifully accentuates the waistline.

No matter what I’m doing, as long as I’m wearing this black coat, I become an honorary member of the Peaky Blinders. I imagine myself walking alongside the Shelby family, impeccably dressed in suits, smoking cigarettes, as we stride through the damp, muddy streets of Birmingham. Smoke bathes the lead-gray factories, and passersby tip their hats in deference. We are the kings of Birmingham, holding the city's heart in our hands. At the Garrison Tavern, we light more cigarettes and down them with Irish whiskey, numbing both joy and sorrow in one intoxicating gulp.