" 'Av ya got a spare fag, mate?" said the young lady balancing a peroxide blond rats nest on her head.
Attired in apparel which left very little to the imagination, her outfit this evening comprised a pair of denim cut-offs so dimunitive in structure that it actually looked like they were being slowly consumed by her vagina. Her top half was festooned with what can simply be described as a black bra, and in this instance it appeared several decades too small. Her chest burst forth from the slender strappage, spilling sloppily out of the cups in huge drips of surplus flesh.
Despite having ventured forth onto this Friday evening in clothing fit for the most desparate realms of the red light district, I had to admire her. This was bastard October. It was heavily autumnal. And so while I huddled up with my warming pint of Lurcher's stout, shod in a thick jacket and jeans, and she ostentatiously slugged at a white wine spritzer with 95 per cent flesh on display, I couldn't help feel an odd sort of affinity with this damsel in distress.
As a result of her breasts proximity to my fucking face, I was able to observe a faded scrawl on the top of her right tit: Jayden, 9th June, 2016. And just below it: Jazzy (Jazzy?) October 5, 2015. And across to her left: Keesha, 8/4/2009.
This chick was starting to annoy me now. Not only did she have a veritable fucking litter of offspring but there was no consistancy in the style of dates decorating her cleavage. What a loser.
"No. Regretfully I do not "av a spare fag,"" I replied.
And then hecame out.
He had a shaved head. Of course he did. Don't they all. And when spoke it was gutteral clang which brought to mind a brick being thrown through a window.
"S'fag yer wont is it, luv? Ee are..." he clanked out in between boisterous gulps of Carling before mollifying the short muncher with a Lambert and Butler.
"Yeh aaaht on the piss tonight or what?" he pressed in that same flinch-inducing vernacular.
"Yeh, fuckin' right," the semi-naked mother of three replied. "Gonna smash a load of these back (she ended the existence of her current beverage) and fuck off up to Blackjacks for a boogie." The girl, it had to be said, had mapped out a text book evening."
"Ah've got a bit a powder if ya fancy it - make ya a bit lih'er on ya feet?" Apparently a mating ritual of sorts had begun. This was fascinating stuff indeed.
In my head now, I narrated in my best Attenborough.
"And of course at the very mention of the word 'powder' her bust heaves so hard that her bra just about busts, and her shorts disappear yet further into the vast chasm between her thighs.
ANd they both made a beeline bound for the Wetherpoons shitter, arm in arm - as somtam-eros-slap tanned the remains of his Lurcher and disappeared into the dark suburban evening... not in the least bit jealous.