I live in the Hanway Gardens building near Regents Park. My name is Patrick Bateman. I am 27-years-old.
I believe in taking care of myself. I have a balanced diet and a rigorous exercise routine.
After a turbo session, if my legs are a little stiff, I will pull on a pair of CEP compression tights while doing my stretches. I can touch my nose with my knee now. With my head on the floor.
In the shower, I use a gel cleanser made using the herbs and plants found on the lower slopes of Mount Ventoux. I shave my legs with a juniper, lavender, and cyprus lotion. It smells like Alpe d’Huez. Post shave, I exfoliate with Soap and Glory mitts. They are pink. They remind me of the Giro.
I then apply a Dove moisturising tinted tanning lotion in a mid-to-deep tone to my legs and arms, taking care to maintain tan lines created by bib shorts and jersey. I air-dry as I prepare the rest of my routine.
I always use an exfoliating gel scrub containing essence of lemon blossom and pine needle. It smells of Mallorca in the spring. I moisturise with Keihl’s Facial Fuel prior to applying Garnier facial tanning spray in medium tone to ensure an even and consistent coverage.
I return to the legs and employ an amino acid recovery balm to soothe and repair tired muscles around the thigh and calf area. It delivers a cooling sensation not unlike the downpour of the 2014 Ride London.
There is an idea of Patrick Bateman, some kind of abstraction, but there is no real me. Only an entity, something illusory, and though I can hide my cold gaze and you can shake my hand and feel flesh gripping yours and maybe you can even sense our lifestyles are probably comparable, I simply am not there.
I am already out. Riding. Amongst you.