 The backpack was red. Not “orangey-pink” or whatever stupid colour combination term Dave ever said it was. It was blood red. Or scarlet. The colour of a knight’s cross. Period. You couldn’t miss it anywhere. Even while in the woman’s washroom stall at the London bus station. If I had any brains, it would have been hanging up on the door hook while I did my business. But I left it on the floor, giving it ample opportunity to be taken by some jean jacketed degenerate. An enabler, me.
I could only get my knickers up to where my money belt was below my stomach and not flush as I tried to run after whomever took it. Didn’t wash or make sure my make-up and wig were on properly either—stupid. When I ran, I scratched my arm on the yellow, wall hanging sharps container by the exit door. Guess that could have been retribution of some kind, being in the company of the lowlifes and their own doper disposal units.
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