Lou Lou

I do not suffer from hangovers but I do suffer from preaching hippies. I wake quite literally with the sparrows, determine to avoid my weedy and pathetic hosts, tie up my red Nike runners and jog down to town on witch alert. As I approach the Carrot, sweating and huffing and self-conscious without my stilettos I see a short and bearded man of Nordic descent who looks to be nearly forty. I apply some red-lipstick and dab my neck and underarms with appropriately floral Lou Lou before entering, and generally compose myself. I take the table next to the Nordic backpacker's and lament the absence of the aroma of coffee. I note that the waitress's repertoire extends beyond sulking indifference to flirtation. She flicks her unwashed dreadlocks from side to side and giggles with the back packer. I am vaguely intrigued by this outer-suburban bimbo in disguise, so I listen in. She tells him that its been 'freaky' to have met him, and drones on and on about her inner psychic feelings about meeting a man from the other side of the globe in July when the Moon is in Scorpio because she is a Scorpio with an Aquarius rising. I begin to reconsider my position on the individuals alienation in the late twentieth century. It does in fact have some benefits. It can mean that I will never have to speak to either of these people ...

'Anyway I'm Korkal', she says.