More Mancunian love bites

Jessica was arguing with her mum, as usual; the school leaving disco
was barely a fortnight away and she wanted to look her best for Kieran
- plenty of lippy, mascara, a boob tube, sheer tights and some sexy
little shoes. Mum was digging in her heels; why not a nice sparkly top,
some trendy jeans and even designer brand trainers? She would even
augment Jessica's clothing allowance to cater for a special occasion.
But Jessica could be obstinate too; she didn't want to look like a
little girl any longer, for she was almost eleven, almost a
woman.

Brian was dangling his shag-tag provocatively, and indeed a few women
gave him a glance. But only a glance. Up on the large blackboard, those
who had found partners were being rubbed off like downed fighter
pilots, but number 38 remained airborne. Sod this for a lark - he had
been here nearly two hours already! And the beer was crap. He threw the
yellow-painted tag with the number 38 etched in black on to the table,
drank up and left.

David thought it was time to wind up his mum. The church youth group
was going to celebrate Naomi's 18th birthday; they would probably go to
a nightclub afterwards. If they could get past the bouncers. She didn't
rise to the bait and nodded placidly as the iron sizzled to and
fro.
"We're thinking of going to Satan's Hollow!" he continued.
This had the desired effect; she put down the iron, anxiety washing the
habitual contentment from her rounded face.
"Relax, it's not a witchcraft-type place, just a normal nightclub.
Remember, Mum, Satan's Hollow but Jesus is solid through and
through!"
He had to get that one in; he simply had to!

Nita hugged herself with glee; Eid had been really wicked this year!
The five sixth-formers had pooled the earnings from their Saturday jobs
and hired a sleek convertible which they had driven through Rusholme
with the horn blaring, the flashing green lights plugged into the
cigarette lighter and the Pakistan flag waving defiantly from the back
seat - although the driver Padmi, the only one with a valid licence,
was actually Indian. She had felt like a queen or at least a Bollywood
star. Too bad that several family friends had witnessed the
spectacle?

Sandra had read that supermarkets were good places for picking up men,
and she was hoping to meet Mr. Right, or at least Mr.
All-Right-For-Now-And-At-Least-He's-Sober. But you had to find a store
with the right ambience in the right locality; Hulme was too ethnic and
Cheadle too mumsy. Fallowfield, however, seemed promising although a
bit studenty. She ducked into the Feminine Beauty aisle, Sainsbury's
equivalent of the Formula One pit lane. Necessities first; she picked
up a large box of tampons and made a den in the corner of her trolley,
building walls of ciabatta and a roof of organic couscous, for she knew
that one's shopping was a window into the soul, and the body too in
this case. She selected a pack of black stockings and laid them
carefully on top of the bananas to achieve maximum contrast then,
replenished, sped off to the alcohol section.

Tanya was thrilled that Marcus had been chosen, although she was hardly
surprised - he was an Oxbridge graduate and kept his body in good
shape. That gorgeous body was here beside her now, and she gave it a
congratulatory hug, though not a passionate one of course. That would
have to wait till later. He looked at his watch, and started to get
dressed.
**********************************************************************************
Jessica was in detention, and she was crying. That little slut Abigail
had made a move on Kieran when she knew that Jessica had already asked
him to go to the disco with her. Well, she had pulled Abigail's tarty
hair and gave her smug face some good scratches, although Abigail had
used her fists and split Jessica's lip. The boys all thought the
catfight had been great, except for Kieran who then said he couldn't
come to the disco after all as his uncle had a spare ticket for the
United game. All for nothing! There was a rustle from the next desk,
and a packet of sherbet sweets found their way into Jessica's
hand.
"Fancy a Love Heart?" asked Abigail gently.

Brian was writing, an unusual practice for him. He WLTM a woman 20-39,
star sign immaterial, children welcome - something told him that single
mums were less picky and choosy. He had a GSOH, was a N/S and was into
good food, travel and theatre - he crossed out "theatre" and replaced
it with "cinema", it would cast the net a bit wider and in any case
he'd never even been to a theatre. He decided that he was also a
consultant - a vague, moneyed-sounding profession - and was into
ecology, which would explain why he chose to turn up to all his dates
on the bus. This time they'd come flocking, and he could be the one to
pick and choose; that would teach them all a lesson! He painfully
completed the advert, put a grimy cheque into the envelope and searched
for a stamp.

David's pastor and his wife had produced six daughters; Ruth, then
Naomi, Esther, Deborah and Miriam before reverting to pagan
nomenclature for baby Helen. Naomi and David were an Item; they were
also trying to Just Say No, although it was getting really hard. The
group were chilling out at Pizza Hut; they'd bottled out of storming
Satan's Hollow. Naomi and David were holding hands, they could say Yes
to that at least.
"How's Ruth doing?" asked David. Ruth hadn't been seen in church
recently.
"Fine," replied Naomi, "considering she's got a job as a lap dancer.
Earns ten times what I do at the baker's," she added resentfully. David
sat open-mouthed.
"Do your parents know?" he ventured.
"I don't think so; who's going to be the first to tell them?"

Nita was in bother. Her parents referred to it as "disgrace". She
wasn't allowed out by herself or with the convertible gang and her
mother even chaperoned her into town for her Saturday job. But she
still treasured the admiring glances (though they were probably aimed
at the car!), the wolf whistles and wild cheers the daring girls had
received at Eid.
"Nothing happened, Mum!" she protested.
"That doesn't matter."
"The boys get together and do that sort of thing every festival."
"You're not a boy!"

Sandra had bumped into the man whilst reading the ingredients on the
organic beer for the fifth time; he looked the organic type,
bespectacled and bearded but thankfully no sandals. To her horror he
reached into her trolley and picked up the couscous, revealing her
Feminine Beauty product hiding beneath; she blushed and read the beer
label yet again.
"What do you do with these, then?" asked a curious voice.
She turned on him, hotly.
"You stick them up your bloody?."
But he had been peering short-sightedly at the couscous label, not into
her trolley. He dropped the couscous hurriedly and backed off, blinking
in panic. Sandra, you utter, utter div, she wailed inwardly.

Marcus came back from his appointment; he had been paid a small fee,
but that wasn't really the issue, it was making a public-spirited
gesture which counted. He told Tanya what he had had to do in graphic
detail, and they giggled.
"Did they take the lot?" she asked.
"'Fraid so, it's top-grade super unleaded, every drop's
precious!"
"In that case, I want the money, it's me who's missing out!"
She made a grab for his wallet, and they began to throw pillows at each
other. Eventually they agreed to spend Marcus's fee from the Sperm
Donor clinic on a lavish takeaway, which they ate in bed.