filmstarleggings@60+com

"Let's go to the shops," I suggested to Kitty a few days later, when I was over in the village. Phyliss was busy in the shop, training up a new designer, fresh from college. To my surprise, Kitty hung back.

"Not sure," she said, "All the aggro is having an affect on me."
"Are they still at it? I asked, smoothing down they side of my summer orange leggings which plummetted down to my bronze sandals. "It's raining, that always keeps idiots quiet!"
"Leggings, it's not just the awful old women, it's their prodigy's, girls and boys from x up."
"Not the clubs anymore?" I asked hesitantly. I knew what they were like.

"No." she said, "I think everyone got to know how and who they were, so they backed off."
"What happened?"
"I was in Mo's last thursday week, and after I'd had a coffee, I went back in to collect something I'd forgot, and those girls had a group of people cheer because the radio annouced I was dying. Kitty is dying! They said, and all the lined up shop people cheered!" She paused for a moment.

"I was mortified, then mystified, then curious, then I overheard that the girls were paid to make a nasty sarcastic film about and they intend to show it in No, Strangers Hall, or perhaps a near by venue, so that they can prove my death!"
"Sit down, I'll make you a coffee." I was worried perhaps she was really ill.

"Tonight was mentioned!" she said slowly, "They called me something else. Changed the spelling of my name. Tried to say they were me, had several variants. They seem to be playing all the odds, and round the bends. I suppose you think I'm mad. It's not as if we could do anything about it."
"Do you know who they are?" I asked her as I made the coffee.

"No," she said, "If only I did, they just keep on getting at me. A film about my life, for goodness sake. Do you think they are a torture group? Perhaps Uni students or perhaps one of those local iniatives..."

I gave her thc coffee. "I think you should ignore them. They just shout, if you do that. A group of the dafties came round the college, stood outside, and yelled. Pity nobody called the Police. Left them to deal with it. I know they are brought up to be yobs by their parents. Trained in how to be heard. Same group. Perhaps same family."

"I feel sick with worry," she said, "Sometimes I wish they'd just go away. What did your's yell?"
"She didn't wadnt me to put my books to audio, apparently. She's a bit weird, suprised she could read them or knew that I wrote books."
She nodded. Tears fell down her face.

"You've got Post Traumatic Stress Disorder," I said, "Only I can't diagnose that because I'm not a doctor. Evil enough to kill a woman."
"I'll not give up," she said firmly, "Let's go face the daft b*gg*rs down!!"