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I was on the floor, on my ass again. "Cathy, let Denise borrow a pair of your sneakers." Janet suggested. "Coming right up." Cathy hurried to her room. I put on the blouse and buttoned it up. They called it a tunic top. It was big and loose fitting. The collar and cuffs were lace trimmed. At least it covered my ass. I felt like such a fool. Cathy returned in a minute with the sneakers and a pair of pink socks. "Here Denise, put these on." All three stood over me as I pulled them on and tied the bright pink laces. Where were we going? What was the appointment all about? "I need to do something with his hair." Janet said as she picked up Amanda's brush from her dresser top. I tried to get away from them but the three of them cornered me. I had to stand there while Janet took out my ponytail and brushed out my hair. The last thing I wanted to do was to leave the house dressed like this. What if someone saw me? It was Sunday and everyone would be out at the stores. I rode in the back. She even sucked on it once, glowing embers lengthening that ash by a further quarter-inch, and still it clung on like a sailor’s new girl facing an ebbing tide. *** The Honiton bypass was a legend in its own lifetime. Steaming cars haphazardly decorated the verges of that hellish highway like beached whales, their drivers furiously flapping cooling blankets or kicking frustratingly at tyres or their kids. Society was more tolerant of public displays of measured violence then. Impromptu picnics erupted on the tawny grass like spring flowers, cheerful spouses determined to enjoy the sunshine despite their husband’s tribulations. Driving seemed to be a male preserve then, neither my mother or mother-in-law ever ventured behind the wheel. Straw-chewing locals emerged from their chocolate-box cottages to observe our caribou-like migrations across the tarmac’d tundra. I guess the yokels hadn’t got the telly down their way yet. Dad was ever the independent type. He wouldn’t ask strangers.
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