I was taken to court the other day. I rode in on a motorbike and the judge said “Miss Pearce, may I remind you that you are here for crimes against MEDIOCRITY. How do you plead?”
So I rode my bike in a ten minute Wall of Death around the courtroom wearing a stars and stripes bikini and on my last lap I flipped the Judge the Bird and said;
Then my hella handsome lawyer came over and put on a pair of Ray Bans.
“Girl,” he said, “Is your name Mount Etna? Because you are smokin’!”
This bag. This bag. This bag in a photo of a bag. Vintage 80s patchwork leather in which I can fit a toddler and two Uzi nine millimeters. It’s massive, is what I’m trying to say. And never been used. Ten golden pounds.
This tiny religious picture which is so glitzy and camp even Liberace is saying “Dude. That’s way over the top.” ONE POUND AT A SCHOOL FETE. #thuglife
This skirt. Looking at the pattern of the fabric makes me feel vaguely high. Still, under a fiver, vintage St Michael in a teeny tiny size which I can just about squeeze into but can’t make any sudden moves in, or dance, or walk. Or breathe.
This Sparkle & Fade sweatshirt which looks like a bedspread I had as a teen. A POUNDY WOUNDY WOO.
Handmade child’s dress. Fabric straight outta Sesame Street. Matching bag for my three year old’s lipstick and painkillers and shit. Twenty Five Ruddy Pence.