"Black Coats and Lost Tickets"

And the thirty-something to

forty-something

chicks are all made up

to look eighteen - and

they all believe that they do.

And the twelve to fourteen year olds

are all made up

to look eighteen -

and they all believe that they do.

And the music pounds -

repetitive, incessant lyrics, programmed beats.

And the beer is over-priced,

and irrelevant - since they are all

drunk already,

and most of them are here

for sex and drugs,

or drugs and sex -

priorities vary.

And the thirty-something

to forty-something chicks

are looking out for

"fit" eighteen to twenty-four year old lads.

And the twelve to fourteens...

Don't go there.



And at morning light - "chucking out time" -

you face all these women, girls:

emptying the contents

of their handbags

on the floor,

looking for tickets

in order to re-claim their coats.

And they all curse and cry and scream -

because they can't find

the tickets.

Ask them to describe

their coats.

They might tell you:

"It's a black one."

You look in vain

at the endless rows

of coats -

a significant percentage

of which are black -

and you say:

"Can you be a bit more specific?"

Blank looks.

Brief silence.

"It's a Top Shop Twelve -

if that helps."

"You are so not a Twelve, Katie.

Not a Top Shop Twelve, anyway."

Now you want to

curse and cry and scream

and they don't seem to understand

why looking through every label...