Day 02

Miffy

I have ten fingers and ten toes, all of which were arrested at the age of eight and ordered to freeze. My limbs still bear a gnat's purse of baby fat apiece and my running is a toddle at best. My belly is firm and round like an oversized brioche loaf, my belly button a white choc chip nestling below a flatland. My chest would be the first thing below sea level if this second Ice Age would ever make up its mind about whether it's on its way or not.

As I trundle along, several women ask me if I'm OK, if I've lost someone. Several men look, then look away in case assumptions are made about them. The buses are limping lab assistants and I can feel their bored eyes sucking my skirt. More enquiries and onto the main shopping road. Sometimes it is very easy to forget that the cars neeeyowming by are still soft in the centre. I try to look for expressions other than battering ram determination, but come away empty-handed. Suddenly a hand rests on my shoulder.

"Where's your mummy then?

A pert lady with a pencil mustache bends like a tree over me.

"Salisbury, I think. Though I can't be sure. It depends who she's groping this week. The guy from Salisbury was apparently in possession of a third leg, so my guess is that she's still there.

I walk off, leaving her still hooped over the spot where I had stood, mary jane shoes, pleated skirt and foul mouth-garlanded. No doubt she'll be writing to the tabloids next chance she gets, citing me as an example of jaded youth. I look forward to it.

Ah, screw it. I tug at the sleeve of the guy next to me, holding out a fiver.

"Give you this for two fags.

"You what? Five quid for two fags...wait, shouldn't you be in school?

"On a Saturday? Please, I'm gagging for a smoke. I'll make it ten.

"Nah, nah. You shouldn't be smoking.

"Neither should you, but here we are. Please. The shops blatantly won't serve me.
Have a heart. I just want a couple to take me back. Humour me.

"Back? You've smoked before?

"When I was younger.

"Younger? What ' in your mum's tummy? You look like my daughter, you do. Should be buying sweets, not fags. Here, what are your parents playing at anyway, letting you wander about...

But I have gone, of course. Christ, what have I got to do to get a spot of nicotine around these parts? I'm now craving a cigarette more than you can imagine, so I swerve down a back alley to find the one person I know will give me a bundle unquestioningly. I come out on Franklin Street: population one scraggy cat and Fetz.

Fetz's door is chained up to gimp degrees. I give my special knock ' the drumbeat to a Rolling Stones number ' and he stirs, sets his gun at ease and begins unlocking the layers of chain link, which jangle like Jacob Marley clutching a vibrator.

"Wossa password sugar? Hurr, I'm pulling your leg. Get inside before you freeze.

"Cigarettes? I ask, shivering my way inside.

"Little white sticks. Kill you, they can.

I give him a black look.

"Fuckin hell Mif, what ate your sense of humour? Fine, I'll see what I got.

He rummages around in an old tea caddy, throwing out a lonely teabag and various pouches - "sure you wouldn't like somming stronger? Nah? Suit yourself. - and finally excavates a battered pack of Camels. I plug my mouth with one. He puts a hand behind one ear in a harking motion.

"Thank you Fetz. You're welcome. Don't mention it.

"Cheers Fetz. You're a bunny kissing a flipping rainbow. Fuuuuuck, that's nice.

"So are you here on business or just get laughed out of the newsagent again? Thought you gave up, anyway?

He pulls out a chair and does a mock sweeping bow. I scowl and hoist my stumpy body onto it. My legs are half the length of the chair's. I look like I'm round for cookies and milk with a scuzzy uncle.
"Yeah, so did I, but this is just a one-off thing anyway. I suppose I can take care of a few odds and sods while I'm here, though. What's lined up then?

"Well now, depends what you're up for. You see... and here he indicates a pile as big as me of pink A4 sheets, "there are a lot of people who want you on board with their projects. Who could blame them, eh? You're looking cute as a button.

"Damn well should do. I pay enough for it.

"Which reminds me, said Fetz. "Your latest invoice came through. He frowns.

"What? I said, fag quivering. "What's that look in aid of?

"You may find yourself saying yes to a few more gigs around this time, Miffy, my dear. They've put their prices up.

"Fuck.

"And you're behind on payments. They're threatening to cut you off.

"What? Like the fucking gas or something? They can't cut me off, the steaming heaps of...Oh, this is ridiculous. What am I supposed to do?

Fetz waggles the pink paper.

"Be more positive in your outlook. Say yes a little more, darling. Lot of very generous souls out there willing to help you out.

"Not the sort of help I'd wish for.

The light in the brown lamp on his table spat a last beam and died.

"Oh, that reminds me. The gas bill came today too.

Casenotes

Lighten my load, petal,
take me away
to a cushioned cavern
where time stops still
and we grow more drunk
each day that bumbles by
on the pointlessness
of calendars, the mockability
of clocks. Let's laugh
our faces inside out.
I'll chase you like I'm three
and you're a wish-granting genie.
You'll prod me in a spot
where full, soft skin
bounces to meet your touch.
Take a bag from my eyes
and help me carry it home.
Carry me home
and pretend
I weigh nothing.
Darling.