• Fly Tipping •
Entering the sun-flooded office, thick with heat, my nose and mouth have nothing to go on; the air is ungraspable. A young temp-girl holds on to her steaming cup of hot something with both hands. Aluminous nail polish. Stringy wrists. Despite the oppressive conditions, she feigns a shiver whilst not missing a beat as she talks about this feeling of
intense claustrophobia. She hasn’t had time to go for a run or a swim these past few days, and it’s horrible. She lowers her nose and face to her arm, just above one of those skinny wrists, and tells her co-worker, whilst still with her face dipped into her wrist, that it smells singed, her skin. “That’ll be the sun-bed.” Replies the co-worker, leaning in to smell the arm herself. “Really?” “Really. Have you been on it today?” “Not today – no...Not been on it for ages. Really - the sun-bed?”
[1]
“Happens to me all the time.” “Oh God!” “I’m always burning.” “But I’ve not been on it: God's honest...” A halo of flies gather around her hot cup. She takes a sip and they flee from her face. “Are are you sure it’s not something else?” She asks, before saying: “I need a change of air...I need to get out.”
[2]