THRUSH

Hi Emma,

Sorry to hear you’ve got Thrush, I hope the itching isn’t too bad, I scratched my way through two pairs of knickers when I had it.

I’ve still got some tablets, and the cream, if you haven’t managed to get hold of any yet. I can drop them off after my promo tonight, it might be a bit late though, it’s at Fatty Artie’s, Fish and Chip Megastore over at Claypole. They’re having a themed 60s food night and all their stuff is going to be cooked in beef fat instead of oil. Blimey! I think he’ll have to change his shop name to Fatty Arteries after that.

Still, he’s paying me in cash from the till, not in chip suppers, so I don’t care.

I’ve got to get dressed up like a dolly bird from the 1960s, you know, like that Twiggy. She had no boobs though, so I’ll look more like Nancy Sinatra when she was singing that song about her boots. She had a right pair on her.

I once caught my pervy ex: Simon, knocking one out over the video of her singing that song when I came back from my electrocution class. Do you remember? That time I was learning how to talk posh for when I got famous. I only lasted a week. I didn’t care where the bloody rain in Spain fell after the first thirty minutes.

‘Speak as though you have a plum in your mouth,’ said the tutor, Mrs Poshly-Smythe.

That put me off for a start. All I could think of were Simon’s plums, and I wasn’t going to let them get past my lips. He’d been begging me to suck on them for months.

Anyway, it shouldn’t be a bad night, though the crowd might get a bit rough. You know what Claypole is like on a Friday.

Back to the Thrush.

I remember the second time I had it. It was only a few months ago. It started after I had to borrow a pair of knickers from Stacey Macey at her coming out party. She was just looking for a bit of notoriety, really, she was never a proper lesbian. I caught her sitting astride Frankie Arbuckle on a stack of pallets at the back of Hardwall’s DIY shop the week before.

Anyway, I’d got my pants snagged on Stacey’s little sister’s rabbit hutch when I went outside with Jimmy McCorker. There wasn’t an inch of privacy in her house, and unlike that tart, Olivia, I wasn’t going to perform in front of five other couples in the back bedroom. (So, what if Olivia had been first in? She got there within five minutes of the party starting, the tart. Any self-respecting woman would have at least pulled the duvet over their coupling.)

My knickers snagged on the rusty wire of the cage as I leaned back to think of England. Before I could let him know I was caught up, he yanked my knickers down my thighs and I heard them tear in half.

I wasn’t too fussed; they weren’t new ones or anything. I got them in a multi-pack from that new street stall in the precinct, but it did leave me embarrassingly knickerless, wearing a dress that barely covered my arse in the first place.

So, I copped hold of Stacey as I walked back up the stairs, trying to pull my dress down to cover my modesty and to stop Jimmy, (who was two steps behind,) continually lifting up my dress and shouting, ‘Och Aye! there’s a full moon tonight.’

She dashed into her bedroom, (sadly, the one that Olivia was being carnalised in,) grabbed a pair of Tesco’s big girl pants, and tossed them across the room to me.

Olivia savoured the moment.

‘Ooh, taking a souvenir, are we?’ she chortled.

I told her the only souvenir she’d be taking home, was crabs from the favourite to win the greasiest, hairiest, ugliest, tramp of the year contest, and slunk down the passage to the lavatory where  I had to evict a couple of crackheads getting their two hourly fix, before I could pull on the garish, monthly pants, tidy my hair, lip up and make myself presentable. Luckily, the pants were only two sizes too big, so I wasn’t in danger of finding them round my ankles as I walked down the stairs. I grabbled hold of the waistband though, just in case.

By the time I got back to the kitchen, Jimmy was nibbling the neck of a mousey-looking girl with buck teeth and a hairy top lip.

Most of the fanciable men had already copped off and the ones that were left, looked like they wouldn’t know what the word, conversation, meant, let alone produce one. So, pushing past a line of groping fingers, I let myself out and walked the short distance home, across the estate.

Now, you know when you realise you’ve made an horrendous mistake, but it’s too late to do anything about it?

I reached that stage by the time I’d got home, sat on the loo and looked down at those pants.

Stacey isn’t a smelly sort, usually, but I think this grisly garment had missed its annual treat into the washing machine. Under the light of our bathroom, (Stacey’s house had been decked out in mostly, red light bulbs,) I could see the stains quite clearly. I tried to tell myself that she’d just forgotten to Oxi-Action them and the baggy bloomers were clean, but I couldn’t convince myself.

I chucked them in the bin, scrubbed my fanny to within an inch of its life and fell into bed feeling more than a tad, depressed.

Two days later I woke up with an itch that would take an eagle’s talon to sate. It drove me nuts. This wasn’t just Thrush, a Thrush whistles sweetly, this thing was screeching like a starving seagull, swooping down to grab someone’s seaside sarnie.

I still shudder at the thought of it.

The cheeky cow even asked for her knickers back when I saw her a few days later. I just smiled and nodded because she was with that tart, Olivia at the time.

Olivia looked sad, stuck her bottom lip out and said, ‘Aw, Stacey, do let her keep them, she loves them so much, did you see her little face light up when you gave them to her?’

I was livid. It was one of those moments when I needed a wisecrack about the new, drug resistant Syphilis that was infecting the world or asking her if the boffins had signed her up for testing the Incredible, Vagina-shrinking cream that was about to revolutionise post-natal care for new mothers, (Olivia’s fanny is legendary in size and she’d make a great guinea pig,) but I couldn’t think of a single insult worthy of the name, so I just ducked my head, looked at my, fake, leather look, Shoo Shoes, and slunk off home.

Right, I’d better dig out the 1960’s mini dress and get ready. It’s one of those black and white, harlequin patterned ones. I’m going to wear my knee-length, white leather boots with it.

Do you know what? I WILL look just like Nancy!

Are you ready boots…?

I’ll drop the cream and pills off later Hun. Tracy, the Go-Go- Girl.

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