Gillie MacPhail

It's April 1981, in Glasgow, Scotland. Earlier in the day, you stopped in to the charity shop looking for the perfect jumper to go with your tweed jaiket. You wanted to impress the ladies seeing the show in town, and when you arrive at the entrance, you see a crowd of beautiful locals dressed in a similar charity shop chic, smoking and trying to look tidy. You make your way to into the venue area, and you turn to look at the crowd as Orange Juice is still setting up. A number of slim women are standing around, arms crossed, striking poses. When the band starts playing, the lights dim. You look around again as the music energizes you. You see her. She's the only fat woman in the venue, by a long shot. She's squeezed into a black sweater and grey skirt. Her arms stretch the sweater fabric to its breaking point at the sleeve, and her belly causes the top to ride up, letting pale flesh peak out. The colour in her chubby cheeks sends your heart into a flutter as she turns and catches you glancing in her direction. She starts walking closer to you, her wide hips swaying, rubbing together visibly at the hem of her skirt. As she walks towards you, she is shyly making eyes. She stands next to you, saying nothing, but seemingly daring you to speak to her.