I’m kipping behind the wheel when someone knocks on the glass saying all right mate? out of juice? and I’m wading in molasses and he’s one of those holograms and I tell him not to worry I’ll go for fuel in the morning and he’s saying bit of a walk, mate, you’re twenty clicks from Borden and I’m saying no problem I’ll take the draft horse and then he’s all what day is it? and where do you live? and who’s the Prime Minister? and all I know is I had a notion and it vanished so I

I pay top dollar for the Elvis suit. She’s worth it. I knock—guitar in one hand, rhinestones glinting in the porchlight—and she greets me in a bathrobe. Perfect. She’s perfect. Right down to her dropped jaw. Adorable.

The place is festooned with party lights but it’s still a shed and it smells like cow shit. You blot your lip gloss while Amy from the co-op rehearses near a hay bale in a red strapless number she got off the rack at Chiswick’s. ‘Miss Beef is a spiritual event for our town,’ she’s saying, a wedge of sunburn flaring on her chest. Your smile is collegial but you’re thinking surely she’s got to tank with that bollocks and this year the sash is yours. You bought your satin pant