The house was a farm labourer’s cottage set in the heart of rural Kent, down a muddy, narrow winding lane. Surrounded by fragrant orchards, already hanging heavy with full pink and white blooms, nature was seen and heard here in almost every moment. Inside the cottage, more than ever, where the woman was crying out again in pain. She was in labour, a month early, awaiting the arrival of her baby.
This wasn’t a new experience; this would be her sixth child. Hospital births at this time were certainly more the fashion, but the baby was coming too fast. The midwife had come by only two hours ago, flirted with the man and wouldn’t be returning now for another twelve days. Behind locked doors the woman cried to herself, she was going to be all right, she kept telling herself she was going to be all right.
Somewhere over the rainbow…
Dorothy giggled like a naughty school girl, as she snorted up yet another line of the miracle powder. Tossing back her long golden mane, with one graceful sweep of her head, she leapt, lion-like onto the dance floor. With eyes screened behind the darkest shades, she prowls there, gazing longingly at Angel’s red shimmering shoes. She wants them back, well, just for a short while anyway.
Dorothy takes an extra deep breath and lets out a blood curdling scream, “Bring me my red ruby slippers!” The writhing bodies of the weekend crowd freeze into the familiar game of musical statues. A coked-up Angel (bless her) immediately unbuckles her sandals, “Will these do for you honey, you‘re sure looking gorgeous tonight? … Can I buy you a drink or something?”