Working Class Women Love Karaoke

Woke up with a stranger’s hand down my trousers and a bar of soap in my pocket. The branflakes had never fulfilled their promises. It left me empty and cold. We had played it until the evening. Eyeballs was an old man’s game. We hadn’t bought enough pink cushions again. Crushed and defeated, we had gone home.

Working class women love karaoke. Ka-ra-oke. A curious proposition. Stockings and wine. White and red faces. An evening of pitch and weeding. They asked me to find the fish, but the drilling on the left side of my brain hadn’t gone away.

Working class women love karaoke. Sat on the floor with a puzzle book playing spot-the-difference and squirting cream into my mouth. Mother said we’d all get pregnant without globes made of glass and spare train parts. I’d always build globes from muffins. Accounted for the broken heart, at least.

Working class women love karaoke. On the way home I tore ribbons of skin from my feet and laughed to myself about the black hole sat on my shoulder. It stole my thoughts and left me in the room with Harry Pollitt. He had never quite appreciated the terror.

Woke up with a stranger’s hand down my trousers and a bar of soap in my pocket. Went back to sleep.