FlatI have reservations about staying in hotels.

I am hiding  in this hotel room, but not successfully. Gary has just phoned to say he wants the article by tomorrow morning.  Gary has emailed four times to say he wants the article by tomorrow morning.  Gary doesn’t need the article tomorrow morning and three other reporters are covering the story.  He will pick one of us seconds before the deadline and he will pick the deadline. He will pick one of us like he picks his nose before wiping his hand in the crotch of his trousers. I have watched him, many times, shake hands with some unsuspecting quarry.

I have written the article and each time he wants me to change it. It is not good enough for him, which means it is not bad enough. The disposability is not tangible and people will read it for too many seconds. They may even read it twice. They may even think about it.

It is about a Woman who stole cosmetics from a supermarket. Gary obtained the full list of items by using the ‘Freedom of Information’ act.

A purple plum lipstick, An eyebrow pencil and a Foundation –  ‘Beige Shimmer’.  She also stole, it seems, an item from the Woman’s Fashion aisle –  knickers from the ‘Special’ range. And that was, probably, why the supermarket was so keen to press charges.

She ran apparently.

She ran through the car park, through the petrol station, through the car wash and up the dual carriage way for a couple of hundred metres. It is reported that she then disappeared either by clambering over the hedgerow or by having an accomplice driving past at some established time.

Gary is on the phone, again,  ranting and spitting bile down the receiver. “Your article is to be called  – Not even a ‘Tranny’ would wear them!,”  he orders  “Stop writing all this crap about his Gender Reassignment”.  I point out that I wrote about her Gender Reassignment and that I don’t want to write the slang ‘Tranny’. I also tell him that none of that is, even, relevant to the story.

“If you want this job Joe” he snarls, “write the article and highlight that he complained about the quality of the knickers in the courtroom”.

I tell Gary that I don’t want the job.

I lie back on the bed and study the cobweb in the corner of the room. I smile and sigh as I remember my childhood running through fields chasing dandelion clocks.

She was right, the quality of the fabric is of net curtains and it feels cheap next to my skin.

Parisian Silk knickers are better.

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