Leggings - Look Who's out of Work.

Leggings - Look Who's out of Work.

Three younger women around their mid thirties crossed the road together in the early morning light. They were strutting their stuff. Tall beyond 5' 9” all model figured, attempting the ghostbuster strut,trying to look bigger than they were.

Dulcie was out, from the confines of her home, from the man who owned her hide, who beat her because she screamed so beautifully, in time with the lashes landing – who bought her beautiful things to wear – and her friends who had suffered the same fate with different monsters in order to have money.

“Look,” she cried out to her followers, “There! There she is, if only she had...”

I looked at her, cool, distant. The night before resounding in my mind. A night of betweens and changes, a night of Gods who hunt the hunters...

“Don't look at me like that!” she wailed furiously, “I know its because we're all whipped!”

“Yeah!” said one of her friends, “We all went through it, we know what it is to be whipped!”

“And there's no get out of it,” said the third, “If we can't find someone they'd prefer to whip!”

A sudden silence pervaded the group, and they continued across the street. The walk had become defensive, and the strut had gone. They were whipped women and they knew it. I wondered why I wasn't sorry for them. Only... they were not nice people... they were trying not to get out entirely... to be on the top, not the bottom of the gang.

I caught the bus and went onwards toward the city. The rumours there were gathering, like fleas jumping across the heads. The news was strange, fey, apparently Dulcie has been sacked! No reason given. Some days you get the wrong end of things...