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Karma by Karen Lethlean - Page 5

Karen Lethlean

‘Can I help you?’ she says.

What a question. It’s three forty-five, I’m naked except for one stupidly comic pink shoe, and I think it is starting to drizzle.

‘Pretty much anything you could do would be a help.’

Throw me your loose change, a match, a dry crust, hit me over the head with an empty bottle, call the men in white coats so they can take me away; about now I really don’t care. I’ve got nothing, and while I’m into outdoor sex, right about now I’d like to be inside again.

Lock out laws probably means she can’t let me inside the bar, without risking double figure thousands of bucks in fines, even though it’s unlikely I am a representative of liquor and gambling, deep under cover. (Or should I say, without cover.)

Eventually she agrees to call a locksmith. After I have waited for what seems like an age, but is probably only a half hour, she emerges again. I ask her how long he’s going to take, and she says, ‘Sorry, I forgot.’

Finally moved to action by my increasingly desperate pleas, she finds a pair of those chef’s trousers. Giant, musty, stinky things, way too big for me. I have to hold them up to keep the things anywhere near my waist. The pink shoe tucked under my arm to accessorise.

The “helpful” lady then grudgingly agrees to let me use the phone, because, ‘Things are quietening down a bit now.’

So I am walking through a bar obviously set up for a gay night romp. All decorated with rainbow flags and glitter balls. The whole place is full of pretty lads. I must look like some erotic form of the scarecrow from Wizard of Oz. While I am trying to use the phone, my trousers are falling down and all these guys are touching me up. They’re all full of such fun comments like… “Where is the carriage Cinderella?”

Karma by Karen Lethlean - Page 5

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