Jill H is dancing to Brown Sugar at a party. She holds her sling backs in one hand, a wine glass in the other. As she sashays and dips the room around her begins to melt into a blur of warm orange and brown tones. She is the focus.
I am cutting hair at a bus stop in the rain. Sam F’s friend, Simon, crosses the street and takes shelter. “Is there much of a queue?” I show him a list of names that I have stuck up on the glass. He picks up a magazine from the pavement and says he’ll wait. “Oh, wow,” he says. “You have the final copy of ______ magazine.” (it has an orange cover, a face of some idiot celebrity and the headline ‘Never Mind The Pox!’).
Holly T is shuffling a deck of cards. They are Tarot, of course, but she wears one of those green croupier’s visors. In fact, we are in a casino – flashing machine lights in the periphery. She deals the cards out onto the baize, and the seated players scoop them up and study them. Most have adopted a very strict poker face, but one, an incredibly tall man with red hair, whoops excitedly when he sees his dealt hand. A crowd gathers around the table and now Holly T, rolling up her sleeves – and exposing many handwritten notes on her wrists – says, “Well, no prizes for guessing who’s won this round!” Everyone has to give their cards back and the game, much to everyone’s chagrin, begins again.