I, PRIESTESS (2)
I didn't know what to do with the cat, so I sewed up some mittens, a nice furry hat.
The butcher stood over his barbeque; the smell of kebabs left me feeling quite blue.
I trudged up the hill to Keele University campus. Usually quiet and devoid of rumpus, the place was a-buzz - with girls' dancing troops.
The mothers sat round in slovenly groups with their pop-music blaring, and all of them bingeing. Their daughters were both over-excited and -fed.
And, for the record, their routines amounted to little. (Their commitment to exercise was shamelessly fickle.)
The heftiest girls you ever have seen; all dressed up in pink, they acted like queens but their bodies lacked tone; choreography was poor. (Clapping loudly and whooping, their feet rare left the floor.)
Each troop had its van: white Mercedes or Ford. The dads at the wheels smoked roll-ups, looked bored.
Each van had a logo painted on the side that, I wrongly assumed, was ironic or snide for the names implied quality beyond the girls' reach (for the most part, resembling something washed up on the beach).
I might start my own group - an adolescent dance-troop - comprising fat girls on the verge of puberty. Not to sound disparaging rude or derogatory, but the name I'd christen them - all pastelled-up and pasty - is The Lazy Little Cows.
After all, it's the little lazy cows that always triumph.
