remote cards

There are dozens of them in the rain soaked streets, circling like sparrows in the sky. Drops running down their child faces. Skinny barely post-pubescent girls in pre-club/under 18 uniform. A group of them striding between cars – bright yellow trousers, a neon colour, gathered at the ankles by reflective bands. White vest tops, emphasizing how skinny they are, scooped to show the potential of some future cleavage. They have a swagger, a look in their eyes, these feral Lolita.

At the junction a group with legs bare, either wearing absurdly short shorts or obscenely short skirts. Spotting others of their kind they yip and run frantic hug and the chatter of high frequency conversations. A third group strides in the same direction – half of them n plain white forensic suits, hoods up eyes staring out. One amongst them in a neon pink shirt that goes with the neon pink t-shirts the rest wear beneath their whites. To go with the skirt an open black hoodie, shoulders slumped, hands buried in her pockets beneath she wears a black top, scoop necked and naked belly.

The next dozen are in short skirts, coupled with brutal heels, a white track suited guy in their midst, nervous for all his feigned bravado. Around them adults part, watching their passage. Even though it’s only 6 pm it’s January and its dark and bleak. Everyone other than this stream of teens is dressed for the weather, complimenting the weather – blacks and grey, rain coats and jackets, rare elements of colour so subdued as to be negligible.