I have precisely fifteen minutes till take-off. Hair, skin, fingernails dirty, no make-up, cat-litter armpits, gorgonzola cleavage. And nothing to wear. Nothing in chest of drawers but an old Bart Simpson T-shirt and some leggings. Leggings? When did I ever wear leggings? No time to think. Nice Mike the sexy copper: hope he comes back, but in thirteen minutes there will be a brown beach-boy from Barcelona on my doorstep and get your priorities right, girl. Toss through the pile of clothes on the floor like a tornado, resurface with the perfect thing: short, black Lycra, clingy around the boobs, cut gypsy-style off the shoulder, flared skirt just above the knee. Best five pounds I ever spent in Brixton market, and it doesn’t even have any stains on it. Well, not that can’t be covered up with a casually tossed-on turquoise silk bolero. Which is creased from lying over the back of the chair for a month. I put it on a coat hanger, run to the bathroom with it over my arm. Pull the shower curtain, let the cubicle fill with steam and hang the jacket from the rail to iron itself out.
