She roams the streets tonight. Denim on. Tattered at the bottom where it should be, where it’s always been. She’s got her buddy, her friend, her roamer. They’re going to roam riot tonight. If only it was a dry night, a warm night. But it’s been cold ever since November. London’s unforgiving all year round to her lot, but it’s vindictive in winter. Cruel and stinging with the end of a stick. Snap it goes, against her. Her and her lot. Her hair is short and dark and straight. There’s no mess about her. She has her phone to her ear and she shouts down its long line to reach the end of it. Is she getting through? Well she puts in an S and an F to make sure. She’s tired of this old life though she’s not reached 21, and there’s no lucky break coming her way, she knows real life. And her’s is real. She turns her head that’s trapped in hood to make sure her co-roamer is every step of the way. Back up for the night ahead. You need back up for the darkness, you see.