She sits on a wall on a corner near a block of flats, dress cut way above the knee, short sleeve shirt two sizes too small showing her assets. The punters drive by sizing her and all the other prospects up, but how many would think that she is a he? Or used to be. She’s got a smorgasboard of prices for any body who might pull up to see what’s on offer, this time it’s a gent, late fourties early fifties perhaps. An electric window grinds down on the passenger side and he gets a close up view and is interested. Between anxious snapping jaw drops on grape flavoured chewing gum she gives him the deal, at the end he goes for his wallet and shines a silver badge in her face. Her playful sunny mood drops to a sub arctic chill as she is ordered into the back of the car.

The drive to the police station seems to drag as if anchors have been thrown out the back of the car and in a brightly lit interview room she’s asked if she wants a solicitior – of course she does – hasn’t got a clue about this legal stuff. After a few hours in an echoing cell a handle creaks and the door opens and she’s led back to the interview room where she’s met by a pudgy good Samaritan lawyer with a pasty grip. He can’t help notice the oversized hands as they shake and files the info away in the back of his mind. She starts peeling out a schpeel about how it’s so hard to make ends meet, how she’s got a habit to feed. She starts to get the shakes and wonders where the next hit’s gonna come from to make all this go away. Composure slips down a plug hole. The world becomes all floppy and un-centered. Yes she knows she shouldn’t have been there, but where else do you go.