We went to the Black Country Living Museum in Birmingham — the place where Peaky Blinders swaggered through the cobbles — and honestly, it felt like stepping straight into a sepia‑toned time warp.
My vintage‑loving heart was already doing cartwheels. We queued for proper old‑school fish and chips, the kind served in an open paper pack, vinegar fumes rising in that unmistakable days‑gone‑by, old‑school pickled‑egg nostalgia. It was all so perfectly grimy greasy gorgeous.
We stood outside, eating our chips, when a man approached us. My husband — metal by religion, battle jacket by default — always attracts attention. Fourteen years of airports, festivals, random streets, and people stopping him to honour the code stitched into that jacket.
So when the man said, “You two look so unique — would you mind if we take a picture?” I naturally assumed he meant Rich.
I didn’t even look up properly. Just thought, Yeah, fair enough, the jacket does that.
But then the man took my chips out of my hand and passed them to Rich. I reached to take Rich’s chips back, assuming we were just swapping for the photo, and Rich said:
“Babe… he meant you.”
And suddenly the world tilted.
There I was — grey side‑shave I adored, dungarees, plain tee, red lipstick, my everyday neurodiverse self — and apparently I was the one who stood out. Not him. Me.
Eight photographers. Sunshine. A bridge. Big cameras clicking like I’d accidentally wandered onto a film set. I didn’t know where to put my hands. Didn’t know if my smile was smiling. Didn’t know how to stand in a body that suddenly felt too seen. My brain was screaming:
Oh my God. They meant me. Me. I’m the one they noticed.
And yet… I did it. I stood there. I let myself be looked at. I let myself be the unique one.
Afterwards, the lead photographer gave us the name verbally of their group. Except — classic neurodiverse plot twist — I didn’t retain it. Just assumed Rich would as I was so flustered. And he knew.......
Didn’t write it down. By the time we reached the car park, the name had evaporated like steam off hot chips. Rich tried to remember, but nothing, nothing matched online. No trace. No link to the venue. Just a group of photographers on a day out who decided I was their model.
So now it lives here — in my memory blast. True or false, who would know? There’s no proof. No tag. No gallery. Just the moment itself.
Me. Being a model. In the Birmingham museum. In the Black Country. In the land of Peaky
.
Peaky. Fucking. Blinders.
Because apparently…
I’m blinding.
Footnote: Rich battle jacket below.
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