Angie was

An eighties hippy: cheese-cloth and espadrilles, pachouli scented and liked a spliff (slate not weed). And she was ginger, and had bright blue eyes. And looked good in an August field, with the sunshine and bees.

I wonder how tired she is now, forty-fucking-something, in a suburban dormitory estate, three teenagers and a fat husband (does something in an office) in her retinue.

Where once it was Nick Drake, small motorbikes, magic mushrooms and hazy friends. Now it's washing up liquid, a little car and endless grey; bitter vodka evenings with strained acquaintances.

Or maybe she's still painting, but now on bigger canvasses.

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