glee.
Marlene Franklin was sitting opposite her friend Marge in the Albion pub in Woolwich. Marge’s real name was Karen, but she had earned her nickname because her legs tended to spread quicker then Stork margarine. The name didn’t bother Marge at all. She loved sex, always had done, and if people were jealous of her success rate with the male gender, then that was their bloody problem.
‘Does this dress look all right? You can’t see me knickers when I walk, can you?’ Marlene asked her pal as she returned from the Ladies.
‘No, you look stunning, mate, and them blokes in the corner can’t take their eyes off you,’ Marge replied, truthfully.
Pouting her lips just like the models did, Marlene sat down and crossed one leg seductively over the other. At thirty years old, Marlene still looked rather youthful for her age, and with her bright red lipstick, false black eyelashes, and thick blonde hair that she curled herself with heated rollers, Marlene considered herself to be the spitting image of Marilyn Monroe. Today, she had made a special effort and had worn the short, leopard-skin dress that she had stolen from a designer boutique in Hornchurch. Marlene was an expert at shoplifting. She would always wear bulky clothes to go out shopping, would try lots of items on in the fitting room, then would walk out with her favourite underneath her own outfit.
Marlene smiled coyly as an elderly man in a tan Crombie-style coat winked at her. She knew he couldn’t take his eyes off her fishnet stockings and high-heeled black suede shoes, and who could blame him?
‘So have you finished with that Winston now?’ Marge asked her friend.
Marlene took a sip of her gin and tonic. If the men didn’t start buying them drinks soon, they would have to start ordering halves of lager just to make their money last out. ‘Yep. I made him buy me a load of shopping at Sainsbury’s last weekend, then told him I couldn’t see him no more as I felt guilty he had a wife. Gutted he was, even rang me up on Monday crying, but I warned him if he contacts me again I was gonna go round his house and tell his wife everything.’
‘I thought he was quite handsome. He had a fit body,’ Marge said. She had a thing about black men and had been quite jealous when she had first laid eyes on Winston.
‘He had a big black cock, I know that much. Made my bleedin’ eyes water, it did,’ Marlene said, laughing.
‘You must be mad finishing with him.’
‘Didn’t have enough money for me, mate. A Ford worker is hardly gonna keep me in a life of luxury, is he? Especially a married one with three poxy brats.’
‘Don’t look now, but I think that old bloke’s coming over,’ Marge said, nudging her pal.
‘Good afternoon, ladies. I was wondering if you’d allow me the honour of buying you both a drink,’ the man asked, resting his gaze firmly on Marlene.
Marlene smiled. The man was old, short and was certainly no looker, but he reeked of money from his Rolex watch to his shiny leather shoes. Marge had never been backwards in coming forwards. ‘Yes please, mate, we’ll have two large gin and tonics.’
When the man pulled an enormous wad of fifty-pound notes out of his pocket, Marlene’s eyes lit up like beacons. She waited until he walked up to the bar and then turned to her friend. ‘I’m gonna snare this cunt, Marge. Watch and learn, girl.’
Stephanie Crouch was enjoying one of the best days out she had ever had in her life. After Barry had bought her the red sweatshirt, he had insisted on buying her pie and mash for lunch. He’d then bought her a red rose off the flower stall, two drinks in the Needle Gun pub, and UB40’s new single ‘Red Red Wine’, which Stephanie absolutely adored.
‘I’ve had such a fab day, Barry, thanks ever so much,’ she said, joyfully. She had never had a proper boyfriend before, and walking along Roman Road holding Barry’s arm felt that good, she thought she might burst with
Marlene Franklin was sitting opposite her friend Marge in the Albion pub in Woolwich. Marge’s real name was Karen, but she had earned her nickname because her legs tended to spread quicker then Stork margarine. The name didn’t bother Marge at all. She loved sex, always had done, and if people were jealous of her success rate with the male gender, then that was their bloody problem.
‘Does this dress look all right? You can’t see me knickers when I walk, can you?’ Marlene asked her pal as she returned from the Ladies.
‘No, you look stunning, mate, and them blokes in the corner can’t take their eyes off you,’ Marge replied, truthfully.
Pouting her lips just like the models did, Marlene sat down and crossed one leg seductively over the other. At thirty years old, Marlene still looked rather youthful for her age, and with her bright red lipstick, false black eyelashes, and thick blonde hair that she curled herself with heated rollers, Marlene considered herself to be the spitting image of Marilyn Monroe. Today, she had made a special effort and had worn the short, leopard-skin dress that she had stolen from a designer boutique in Hornchurch. Marlene was an expert at shoplifting. She would always wear bulky clothes to go out shopping, would try lots of items on in the fitting room, then would walk out with her favourite underneath her own outfit.
Marlene smiled coyly as an elderly man in a tan Crombie-style coat winked at her. She knew he couldn’t take his eyes off her fishnet stockings and high-heeled black suede shoes, and who could blame him?
‘So have you finished with that Winston now?’ Marge asked her friend.
Marlene took a sip of her gin and tonic. If the men didn’t start buying them drinks soon, they would have to start ordering halves of lager just to make their money last out. ‘Yep. I made him buy me a load of shopping at Sainsbury’s last weekend, then told him I couldn’t see him no more as I felt guilty he had a wife. Gutted he was, even rang me up on Monday crying, but I warned him if he contacts me again I was gonna go round his house and tell his wife everything.’
‘I thought he was quite handsome. He had a fit body,’ Marge said. She had a thing about black men and had been quite jealous when she had first laid eyes on Winston.
‘He had a big black cock, I know that much. Made my bleedin’ eyes water, it did,’ Marlene said, laughing.
‘You must be mad finishing with him.’
‘Didn’t have enough money for me, mate. A Ford worker is hardly gonna keep me in a life of luxury, is he? Especially a married one with three poxy brats.’
‘Don’t look now, but I think that old bloke’s coming over,’ Marge said, nudging her pal.
‘Good afternoon, ladies. I was wondering if you’d allow me the honour of buying you both a drink,’ the man asked, resting his gaze firmly on Marlene.
Marlene smiled. The man was old, short and was certainly no looker, but he reeked of money from his Rolex watch to his shiny leather shoes. Marge had never been backwards in coming forwards. ‘Yes please, mate, we’ll have two large gin and tonics.’
When the man pulled an enormous wad of fifty-pound notes out of his pocket, Marlene’s eyes lit up like beacons. She waited until he walked up to the bar and then turned to her friend. ‘I’m gonna snare this cunt, Marge. Watch and learn, girl.’
Stephanie Crouch was enjoying one of the best days out she had ever had in her life. After Barry had bought her the red sweatshirt, he had insisted on buying her pie and mash for lunch. He’d then bought her a red rose off the flower stall, two drinks in the Needle Gun pub, and UB40’s new single ‘Red Red Wine’, which Stephanie absolutely adored.
‘I’ve had such a fab day, Barry, thanks ever so much,’ she said, joyfully. She had never had a proper boyfriend before, and walking along Roman Road holding Barry’s arm felt that good, she thought she might burst with
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