Talk To Me Like I'm The Dirtiest Girl In The World
Sunday 5 November 2000
morning. Tumble out of bed (cushioned against impact of arse on
lino by giant pile of clothes on the floor) and into velour top
and denim skirt and the red boots. Shuffle down to the cash machine
and back along the market.
The boots are forcing me to walk slowly. I'm not used to heels.
My feet make sounds on the pavement. My hips move differently to
usual. I can't zip between people like I normally would. I'm almost
grateful when I get stuck behind the old lady with the orthapedic
shoes. She wears a headscarf and uses her shopper as a zimmer frame.
Even she's going faster than me.
I walk past a stall with big silver scoops full of fruit on. I'm
halfway past when I notice the bananas. 'All these bananas, a paaahhhhnnnnddddd',
comes the cry. 'Just think of all the fun you could have with these!'
I pause and turn back. They're nice bananas - not too green, not
too spotty, and loads of them. All for a paaahhhnnnddd.
'See, I knew that'd get her', the old man behind the stall
says to his friend.
He's ancient, sixty or so, paunchy, white hair. 'You want these,
do you?' he asks me. I fumble in my bag for my little purse, dig
around for a pound coin. Hold it up for him.
'Want all of them, do you?', he asks. I glance at him and
look away, nodding. His voice - it's beyond lascivious. It's dripping
with suggestion. These aren't bananas. They're...
'Are you sure you can manage them all?' he says, tipping
them into a blue carrier bag.
nod again, take the bananas, walk off.
'Yeah', he says quietly. 'I bet you can'.
Whatever it is that's making him talk to me like I'm the dirtiest
girl in the world.... I didn't do it.
I'm not sure I even like bananas.
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