I can see a woman over there by the shops, she lives above me. She's one of those thin, whippet faced women who always have an aggressive look to them, as though they'd launch into a barrage of abuse if you cross them.
The sort you see in pubs en-masse, there's always one with her ears dripping with cheap gold squashed into some tacky outfit and talking loudly about sex, cackling with her mates whilst throwing back Bacardi and Coke and coming on to every one of the worthless, bullies of men in the place. And all because she just wants to know what it feels like to be loved.
Yeah, those men laugh at her and her antics, acting all hard, talking like an American talk show guest from the daytime T.V. she watches, bored. But they'll still take her home, or even not that far, give her one then forget that that loud, taarty sort the wrong side of thirty ever existed. So she goes out with her mates and there she is being all, what lonely hearts ads call 'bubbly' but everyone else calls irritating. And she's there, down go Bacardi and Cokes and we're told he was a crap shag anyway and she breaks intoanother performance of her daytime t.v. idioms and cackle, cackle, 'hung like a sparrow' etc.And then she gets home and cries her eyes out, because without that facade she's falling apart.