The fine diner
Along she marched, neck wrapped in an oversized Primark Scarf, Her tied, greased hair was bound by hand, in an elastic band. Slung to her arm hung a carrier bag, that swung against her swagger, it held coco pops, fags, and around two to four packs of toffeecrisps. Her phone remained braced to her face to hear over the roaring traffic, before whining about her surprise in finding she'd gained a stone. She slipped between the traffic light halted traffic, with her rank cuisine, to fall into the day, with an extra stone in tow, as her bones groaned.
Collection: Different Strokes of Strife