Free Serve Cool by Lauren Davies Page B

chest. I had wanted one myself but decided the writing would have to be minute to fit ‘Fat Miserable Heffer’ across the front. I had opted, instead, for a black velour catsuit which was up there with pleated culottes and pop socks in the chart of desperately unflattering women’s fashions. The jumpsuit demons had alsoencouraged me to apply eight layers of red lipstick and to diffuse my hair to within an inch of its orange life. All I needed was a pair of Christmas-tree decoration earrings and a cigarette holder and I would have been in the running for landlady at the Rover’s Return. For some reason, the disasters in my life had made me lose any iota of style and decorum that I may have previously possessed. In an attempt to ‘wash that man right out of my hair’ I had achieved an alteration of image which left me looking and feeling ridiculous and which made me sink even deeper into depression. As I’d learned while staying with Maz, the talk shows always blamed it on ‘low self-esteem’. I preferred to blame everything on Jack.
    Maz and I had spent the whole morning in Newcastle undergoing an intensive session of retail therapy. My aim had been to find a young, dynamic, foxy, with-a-hint-of-sporty wardrobe to get myself back on track. Maz’s goal had simply been to spend until she had more carrier bags than Tescos and to inflict grievous bodily harm on her bank balance.
    Personally, I hate trying on clothes in shops. If I am already feeling hassled by the crowds, communal changing rooms only serve to heighten my anxiety levels. They must have been invented by a man with a fetish for groups of semi-naked women, sweating together in a horribly confined space. Of course, that would cover about two-thirds of the male population (the remaining third prefer open spaces). Not only must we endure the wall-to-wall mirrors, the smell of sweaty feet and the dangerously low oxygen levels, but we are also forced to bare every lump, bump,stretchmark and orange peel plantation in the name of recreational shopping. More often than not, it’s always the day that I choose to wear the slightly faded, holey granny pants that pull up to just below my boobs (which are, of course, covered with the grey, ill-fitting ten-year-old bra).
    At the fifth communal hell-hole of the day, I had finally put my foot down and refused to ‘submit to this hideous torture any longer’. I had sat gloomily in one corner while Maz tried on (and suited) all two-dozen of her ‘three items only please’. I had watched with amusement and disgust as endless Kate Moss and All Saints wannabees strutted their stuff in front of the mirrors while the latest boy-band love song CD (on repeat) ate into my brain.
    ‘Be honest, Stacey, does this make me look fat?’ asked one beanpole loudly of her equally emaciated friend. I’d seen more meat on a butcher’s pencil. Such words as ‘stick insect’, ‘toothpick’ and ‘bitch’ had instantly sprung to mind.
    ‘Na Tracey, it looks cool lass. Like really sexy.’
    Eugh, even their names rhymed. I half expected them to break into song and start doing backflips across the room, although there would have been a real danger of structural damage to the trowelled-on make-up. Anything more stressful than pouting was a definite no-no. Stacey and Tracey had eventually opted for matching pink and white PVC hot pant and jacket ensembles. Their next port of call had probably been to pick up their fake IDs and acid tabs. They had soon been replaced by what seemed like a hundred more Spicy clones. Leopard skin, combat trousers and Lycra tops that would hardly clothe a small bee had flashed before my eyes from all angles. It seemed bodies were being stoppedfrom developing beyond the age of 15, while eyelashes, shoe heels and attitudes were on the increase. Finally I could take it no longer and had plucked Maz from the madness. I had grabbed the first item of clothing, thrown the rest into the manicured hands of a completely