Oh Christ, she said, I’m higher than the sun.
I screwed my face into a smile and turned away. She had nothing to say. Dusted in the low summer sun she spun around and around, arms like tentacles, eyes like boiled sweets. This blackhole of blankness, this PR terror turning my stomach far worse than the ill winds from the portaloos. In the distance, far from the drum and bass DJs in their gerryrigged stockade a band was playing. No one turned to watch. The channels programmed in their heads were better. Wave after wave of static and buzz – the irrepressible frequency of their egos.
I screwed my face into a smile and turned away. She had nothing to say. Dusted in the low summer sun she spun around and around, arms like tentacles, eyes like boiled sweets. This blackhole of blankness, this PR terror turning my stomach far worse than the ill winds from the portaloos. In the distance, far from the drum and bass DJs in their gerryrigged stockade a band was playing. No one turned to watch. The channels programmed in their heads were better. Wave after wave of static and buzz – the irrepressible frequency of their egos.