LONDON AUGUST 2009
The toilet barks as I dare to enter the silver ark of pink painted walls and winking mirrors talk of tarts and smells of farts smothered in 'what perfume are you wearing?'
Applying lipstick by the blocked up sink I begin to think about what a night this hasn’t been about how I’d have rather been in bed watching Alan Sugar on TV, when I hear what’s being said by some skinny Sloaney next to me: ‘I really think I actually didn’t use to be this fat. I really actually think my wrap had more in it than that’ Her rather round and rosy friend bends a reassuring arm around her waist and takes a tube of toothpaste from her bag rubs it around her teeth licking at the taste.
A puffy princess quickly stumbles in crying: 'My date wouldn’t buy me dessert,said I’m looking chunky, then put his hand up my skirt. Do I look like a slag?' No answer. I start to speak but a crazy lady with a bleeding cheek rushes in for a plaster: 'What happened?' I asked her. 'Ah this is me favourite fuckin tune, I love the beat, I love the pace but every time I shock out to it me earrings cut me in the bloody face!’ I nod and shake a hairspray can knocking a hooker in the nose 'it’s numb’ she smiles, striking a highly paid pose.
'One spray, one pound' from the attendant in the corner who’s seen it all before and doesn’t really care as long as no one pukes on the floor.
So there’s me,smiling silent at the open door wondering, profoundly if this place this space of flushes, blusher brushes, confessions of crushes
of bitching, ripped dress-stitching, nylon knicker-itching
of red stains, head pains, ‘I can’t fake it again’ complaints
of lollipops, double-drops, shouts of ‘just make the spinning stop’
of truth, uncouthly cubicley coughed
is actually, the place to be.
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