Becoming poor and menial

The descent of a fashion-conscious middle-class woman into shabby poverty, all at the behest of another woman, fifteen years her junior.

Friday, March 10, 2006

Swinish dreams

Yesterday I was told to sleep like the piggy wiggy that I am. I had to go to the bins and fetch out the five pieces of my favourite dress that my mistress had ordered me to slice up (and how it still makes me flush with shame and pleasure to use that word 'mistress' so casually!) – then - filth smeared though they were – I had to strip the bed and use them as my bedding – rolling and nestling myself among them, like a great heavy sow – naked – sleeping in the tatters of my favourite dress. I also knew that in the morning I would have to put on the clothes I’d bought in the same charity shop to which I’d taken my other dress – jeans, top, ribbed jesey – the whole ensemble was only £19 – and even though I’d washed them, I knew they would still have the fug and fust of SECOND HAND about them. Cheap second clothes, suitable for the sort of person I’m becoming – oh the shame, the awfulness – and soon to become even more awful – because I’m going to be fattened – my mistress said as much – and so I thought of that too, as I lay in my bed (or should that be my sty?), and imagined how my body would grow, my thighs – and thought that would be the worst violation of all - that not even the food I eat, and my BODY, are to be my own.

I’m wearing the second hand clothes now, as I type. No one commented today at work. Charity shop chic maybe. Or maybe most of my clothes look second hand and so no one notices. But I just spend my whole time thinking EVERYONE must know!

I blush as I type this.

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