Mabel takes Roxy

Top to toe hair rat-tailed into an elastic band. Face rash is Gazpacho in a round bowl. Nervy first day in-breath as she takes the weight of the revolving door. Child of the Teletubby and E number generation scans as hyperactivity makes no sense. Typhoons her out-breath to the receptionist, makes a mental note: ‘It ain’t never gonna be me on that damn switchboard’. At the thump of a text thumb she decides to school-girl bully. Slick production values in her handbag, she’s in Television don’t you know. Got no GCSE’s but a degree in media. A drunken fog speed dials its way to her memory recall. In truth she couldn’t mark her University town on a map but she has a gown that kinda qualifies her to clip the Nation's news ready for public consumption. Which is OK because the headlines come digitally pre-packaged out of a box anyway. So she focuses her slightly irritated by tinted contact lens gaze on her acrylics. Painted shocking red, siren red her talons are ready to draw blood. Her gloves come off faster than underwear. It’s all about the money. The 80’s can read it and weep.

She swings her afternoon change of clothing onto a nail she hammers in a melamine door. Higher up holes are the marks of work ex kids who tried that stunt before. PM black cashmere wear is ready to sparkle into the night with a diamond button and a cleavage separating white gold lariat chain. Benefactor? No one knows where underpaid jumpstarts get their bling spends from. Or their fags. Addiction makes slaves of us all. Too skitty to wait a moment longer she skittles down the fire escape onto Camden Lock, soliciting eye contact from Junkies to pump up her jam. Gutteral, spluttery, coal trapped under the scullery door cough spews forth. Ooops it’s so her's. The black ‘ash crud has to sink somewhere.

Tinny tobacco kiosk she fills with a pause to pick up ‘Hello!’ or not and then go. Or ‘OK’ is it? Neither front page grabs, stories of failed cheerleaders in borrowed diamond white doesn’t fill up her cracks. Like herself, these chicks are too fresh out of the bag. Too close for comfort; she bursts, she blusters, she spills out onto Camden High St tits first, perfunctorily strapped in with froufrou lace. Each breast just going through the motions of contact with underwear.
- But you’re in my way.
- Oh but you’re in mine.
Bloody receptionist type doesn’t budge, emboldened with an armful of Prêt, none of it for her. She thinks. It hurts. It’s her way.
-Get out.
Sucks in exhaust fumes mixed with ganga through breezeblock-even teeth. The receiving end chick is in admin, it’s a temp job, it’s the back end of the bus. No contest. Not only that but it’s a Mabel she has around her neck. A Mabel. She stares.
-It’s a Mabel.
-I know that.
-That’s a Roxy.
-I know that too!
-They are so over.
-Don’t you know iconic!
Fags get dropped into the gutter and the newspaper guy in the kiosk is watching it all on his reverse vision concave disk mirror. His wife ships him a cuppa.
-We are so gonna get us some handbags Pretty. Look they are going crazy for it!
-But they are so fake Deepak. You want little children spoiling their eyesight in a developing country just to make you cheap handbags?
-Not like that! But these two love it. Look you can see the whites in their eyes.
Deepak tilts the security mirror that is hinged on the ceiling so they both have a clear view now.
-Don’t you see, the fat girl with the big chest, she is intimidating the girl with the blotchy face. That is why the eyes are white. And besides it is the teeth not the eyes that are so white.

Deepak wipes a greasy mark off his reverse vision mirror.
-Oh you are right my beautiful wife it is the teeth that are so white.
But really she knows he is staring at those big chests swaying uncontrollably as the tempers of two spoilt little white girls flare. Who wouldn’t.
- Fake again, my incorrigible husband.
Involuntarily he mutters
-Got to get those bloody handbags.