When I first arrived in London, the city greeted me not with fanfare, but with a downpour — the kind that penetrates not only your collar, but your skin. Until that day, I had only read about such things in the stories of Oscar Wilde and Somerset Maugham — about mists that are not made of weather, but of doubt. About rains that are eternal companions of change.

I was soaked to the skin as I walked from Victoria Station to the underground. I didn't squint once, absorbing every drop, letting them pierce me through and through. Then, walking along the wet asphalt amid the glare of antique shop windows, grey facades with peeling stucco, a couple of manhole covers and signs in London grotesque, I realised: I am not here by accident.

I am a guest from a world where cities like London seemed to exist in a parallel reality. Places where the mornings smell of wet stone and tea veils were, as I saw it, meant for others. Not for me. And yet I stood on the platform, a third-rate boy cracked from within. Grasping greedily at everything I saw and feeling that I had a chance. It was raining, and I was walking towards my right to be. Not to pretend, not to rub shoulders, not to try to please — just to be. That London downpour did not become a ‘beautiful place’ for me. It became a symbol of fidelity to my thoughts. I did it.

From that day on, I began collecting England, like children collect stickers from chewing gum: Leaves from St. James's Park, pebbles from the pavements of Shoreditch, scraps of tickets from the Northern line, cards from Soho pubs, pieces of fabric from Camden Passage market, names, smells, glances — everything so that when I returned, I would remain where I belonged. Where my life has meaning and purpose, rather than just counting down the days. But over time, that wasn't enough.

So began the hunt for portals — for things that could transport me back to that first rain again and again. At flea markets, I searched for Harris Tweed jackets, rough great coats, rustling shirts with Victorian collars.

But there was one problem — this noble style looked disgusting on me. I didn't want to look like an aristocrat. I wanted to blend in.

I wanted to immerse myself in my thoughts and feelings while wearing clothes, rather than straightening my back. I wanted  cocoon of emotions, not a beautiful jacket. I wanted clothes that would transport me back to that rainy day when I walked without resisting the raindrops, soaking in my faith in my path with every step.

That's how Cerebrade was born — not as a brand, but as an attempt to sew into the seams of clothing that very feeling of my thoughts are worth something.’ I'm not asking you to wear suits. I don't want to rethink British fashion. I gratefully take this code to create a state of mind. I just want you to be there, under that same rain, wherever you are right now.