Day 08

Miffy

I wonder if sound, like smoke, rises. Sat up here on the studio roof, the sirens from the street seem to leap to meet my ears. A gull wheels around the chimney stack looking confused and lost. I saw a group of his brothers flap by earlier, and consider telling him, but keep quiet and let him do a few more circuits before lolloping off through the smog.

The radio at my hip crackles like a well-played record. A furzed voice tells me five minutes. I wait two, then swing my little legs, ankle-socked and dolly-shoed, back over the railings and head indoors.

Martaro

She's incredible. It's like somebody clicked their fingers one day and said "screw 5 boob jobs a pop, stuff peephole lingerie and make-up and airbrushing ' I've found a way to create the sexiest thing alive, and it's so simple. Better still, it's legal.

She pads back on set like a sleepy cherub. I remember waiting years to meet Miffy Renee. Ever since the Courier ran an article on her claiming her to be 'the sickest abomination of science ever'. Nothing sucks me in like a big, obnoxious headline. And then one day there she was, and she's been coming in ever since. It's a strange experience.

When Miffy walks in, your gut reaction is to get this angelic child straight the fuck out of here, before she realises what's going on and becomes scarred for life. You do relax a little after that, but the protective instinct never leaves you, even when you've seen her chain smoking, swearing and well, everything else that we're here for.

Her first question to me, after shaking my hand with a firm grip, was "How many cocks can I expect today? Roughly., followed swiftly by "Nice set. The sugar candy mountain backdrop is particularly wrong. This should sell. Her voice is a turbulent marriage of Shirley Temple and Lauren Bacall, thanks to the fags.

Right now, she's stood in front of me, hardly even aware that she is pouting (the expression is almost tattooed into place), dressed in a short, stiff little white dress with a red satin sash. Her chocolate hair is all ringlets and ribbon and her face is free from make-up, save for the odd flick of pink blusher. The patent white sandals she wears have been buffed to perfection by the runners, who are all in awe of having such a legend in the building, and she wears tiny white lace gloves over her soft, babyish fingers. She could have walked straight in from a playschool Christmas party.

"Marty! She squeaks daintily from the fluffing room. "Get me somebody else please. This one apparently doesn't know what lube is.

Zoom

FaceWatch: Spotted looking at catalogues for 'umbrella' treatments this week: Nita Bellumi in Sloane Square, Prolly Carter outside the British Museum and Yorman Welsh in Coffee Planet.
Next week: your cut-out-and-keep guide to knifeless surgery, only with Zoom!

Pila

When I get in from town, I am breathing shallow and fast. I wrench off the layers about my head and force myself to stand in front of the mirror.