But I have Andrew.
Unfortunately, Mother is of the first variety of elderly ladies. I hear her, rattling in my head – ‘Sensible dressing is the key to fitting in, my girl. I wish you’d try a bit harder. You’d never know you were my daughter, the way you drag yourself together in your flouncy outfits.’ Should I keep my work suit on for Mother, then, at tea-time, to prove I can fake the part of being a woman in her thirties? Why should I? My head is still twenty years old, still a student. I must move away from this window, cheeks flushed like a scalded lobster.
Ah, here’s my shop; the one which I swear was created purely for me. What beautiful, flowing dresses this window has. And the skirts flow, too, as the air conditioning performs its magic. The models come alive and stand, staring at
