Dolly Mop

The mirror says I've nailed it. I was going for au natural, English rose and voila! there's this fresh, doe-eyed mahak eyeing me.

My latest cupid’s in management, that's what his guff on Harmony says, ‘Young middle management, going places.’ I bet! So, fancy white shirt, two buttons open, showing a bit, mid-heel crepes, skirt not too arse hugging – eye candy for a suit.

I'm getting a few hot glances on the tube, some really cheeky, so I must’ve done OK, putting on the face and stuff.

Even in the pics, and they're prob. pre millenium, he's no spring chicken. I don’t give a monkey’s so long as he’s loaded. I need a protector, a provider. I’m busted and I'm not getting no nine-to-five with a record. I’m up for sentencing Monday – suspended, my brief says.

It was fucking tragic the way I got nicked. I waltz out of Jaeger’s in the suede coat, cool as you like. It’s freeze your tits off outside so I pause all casual-like when I gets to the door to turn up the collar, fur-lined, snug. It only had a Sumo wrestler size price tag under, must've been some dumb fucking intern, and old sharpeyes house dick ids it and hauls me off to the manager. Course I try everything, waterworks, fainting, screaming, sob story, the lot, but the bitch is cold, calls the cops, presses charges.

The magistrate’s worse than cold, arctic frigid. First time in court for shopping, but I’m likely getting six months suspended. Lenient my arse! That's a record. Goodbye nine-to-five.

So there it is, Chez Clemente, posh-looking dump. I can see him in the window, stupid fucking rose in buttonhole. He’s gross, wrinkled, teensy. I nearly run, but I go in, sit down, twist a smile.

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