Dinner with Tracy

Eating chips on the way home last night.

Delicious, as only really-bad-for-you-fast-food can be.

One of the local working girls is at the corner of London Road. This one is blonde, wearing too-high heels, a too-short denim skirt, and a dark hoody. I vaguely recognise her, she and her colleagues often ask for cigarettes, phone money, and of course business.

They should know by now that I never give them any of these things, but undaunted this girl wobbles over (those silly shoes) and says, Gizachip darlin? in a part request and part order kind of tone.

It seems mean to refuse, so I offer her the bag. Energised by a friendly transaction that doesn't involve money or sex, she grabs a chip and gobbles it down. Close up, she's got that very thin pale look that I associate with thin genes (myself) or drugs (everyone else).

Take another, I say, and she does, along with a cue to start chatting. Very quickly I learn:

• Her name is Tracy
• I have a nice smile
• She comes from Chester
• My hair is nice
• She lives just around the corner
• Some Serbs were pestering her earlier only offering £5 for sex.
• I'm very polite and kind
• She's charging £25 for oral followed by sex.
• The chips are nice
• I have a nice voice
• She has a child
• The father was very violent.
• I'm a gentleman.
• She's 22.

A few more chips, then as we part she whips up the skirt from the back to show a flash of white skin and black thong. I'm not sure if this supposed to be an advert, a thank you for the chips, or a show of contempt. Maybe all three.

Back at the flat I finish the chips and watch a documentary on Ceaser's Conquest of Gaul. I wonder if the police could have done me for soliciting, and can you catch AIDS from chips?