Have Joy.

The eternal ring of burnt toast and tea on the air. She spent the last two christmas's in remand for assaulting a neighbour, trashing a car, attempted arson [she burnt a house on Pork Hill down to the bones] and shop lifting [she ransacked a local Spar and beat up two security guards. It took three blokes to hold her down until the bizzies arrived.

She's writing a book. Well. Her step mum is writing it for her. She doesn't know how to write. That's not fair. But you get the idea. In those cheap World of The Strange books that you get in those discount bookstores, they call it channeling. Or something. You've seen them - they always have exactly the same few images of fake flying saucers and ape men. Men in Black, 'aliens that did stuff to me'. Crop circles. It's all so vague and vacuous but I'm drawn to it and always have been. I'm sure she would have laughed at that stuff though. I'm sure she had no idea. I guess her Mother figures she can make something out of it. Cash or cheque. It's an act. I'm sure. But I want to know. And I want to know her.

Her mum's the type who's dress sense never grew up. You get me. She's dressing for two these days though, and I don't mean she's preggers. But she still packs it all into the same old little black numbers, the leopard skin accessories, the mini skirts and gold heels, her obscene clevage spilling out from all corners. Tattooed arms. Palid and pendulant flesh.

Rollo