“How did it go?” Wendy asked as soon as Sarah appeared at the caravan. The girls were sitting on a blanket on the grass, propped up with cushions. They were sipping soft drinks, reading books or writing letters as music blurted out of the open caravan door from a small stereo that Wendy had brought with her from home.
“Not bad, but it’s so much harder than you imagine,” Sarah replied. “I mean, they make it look so bloody easy, but I’m aching all over. My stomach feels like a brick, the backs of my knees are on fire from rubbing on the bar, and my hands look like I’ve been brought up in a workhouse all my life.” She thrust them out for the girls to examine. Still lightly covered in resin, her hands showed the raw callouses and red patches she had amassed during the two-hour session. “I’m a
