Sick of it

The worst of London:

Midday. The sun has been pulsing down all morning. Everything is making everything else hot.

A spotless BMW pulls over to the side of the road. The chauffeur gets out and bustles round to the left rear door. After opening it, he stands there protectively, managing his face so as not to show disgust.

A woman’s hand reaches down from the car. A jewelled bracelet slides down her wrist. Her expensive nails scratch against the pavement as she tries to steady herself. The heat from the paving slab must be burning her hand. Perhaps she hasn’t noticed. She starts to vomit in the gutter.

As I walk past, she raises her head to catch her breath. I already knew how she would look: nostrils fluttering, eyes wide with kohl and coke.

She goes back to being sick as a dog.