Cupcake Couture Read Online Free PDF

percent was dedicated to their only daughter. However, it didn’t take me long to deduce that I came lower on the scale than sourcing weed, smoking weed, watching
Take Hart
whilst harshly criticising the artistic efforts of six year-olds in a stoned stupor andthen recreating those childish efforts with, as far as I could tell, very little improvement.
    To the young, imaginative version of myself, the horizon meant opportunity and adventure. Watching the dented off-white vessels leaving the safety of the River Tyne to head for distant ports was thrilling to me. The fact these sluggish oafs of the ocean even floated was miraculous in itself.
    Where are the passengers going?
I would wonder as I waved enthusiastically from the stone pier at the mouth of the river as if I were sending Charles and Di off on their honeymoon.
    What amazing careers will they find? How much money will they earn and in what currency?
    The world was my oyster, which had always seemed to me a rather closed shellfish to choose to represent opportunity. Of course, I then grew up (something my parents failed to do) and I learned the horizon in relation to the average height of a man was actually less than three miles away. I also learned that these miraculous floating vessels of fortune were jam packed either with pissed Geordies off to investigate brothels in Amsterdam or with loud, blond Norwegians returning from a merry weekend pillaging our shops because they hailed from a nation where a packet of Digestives (or the Nordic equivalent) was paid for with a large note. Even the floatability of the ferries was simply a question of physics, explained away by dry mathematical formulas without even the slightest suggestion of magic. In hindsight, growing up was so depressing. By the time I had earned enough money to chase those heady dreams, my horizon had shrunk from infinity to a very manageable few miles and I had realised reality dishes up the same limitations and mundane issues whether you greet the day with a ‘
Good morning’
a ‘
Goedemorgen
’, or a ‘
Bonjour
’.
    ‘I hope you’re not thinking about jumping, pet. I’m not big on funerals.’
    I swivelled around to see Roxy standing behind me with a crooked smile on her flawlessly made-up face.
    She blew smoke into the air and pouted.
    ‘Even if you do survive, don’t expect me to push you around in a sodding wheelchair, not in these heels.’
    Roxy twisted her foot to display a pink satin skyscraper heel that even Gwyneth Paltrow would balk at. As ever, my friend was dressed as if she were on a celebrity magazine cover shoot. Despite the fact the northerly wind was cold enough to strip bare flesh from bones, Roxy’s skinny legs wore nothing but spray tan. They stuck out like two of Shirley’s overcooked baguettes from a fuchsia, tulip-shaped skirt a good metre above the knee. A tailored, blue satin jacket and orange bra completed the ensemble.
    ‘You forgot to put a top on, Roxy.’
    ‘Me nipples are covered,’ Roxy winked, wobbling her breasts with her hands as if she were juggling satsumas.
    Roxy was built like a tiny mannequin. Every part of her was in proportion, with the exception of her mane of rich brown hair that had so many extensions it should have needed planning permission. She was compact and firm with no unsightly wobbles. The only wobble came from her 34DD breasts, which was a wholly acceptable wobble if the regular looks of male wonderment and female jealousy they received were anything to go by. The icing on the scrumptious cake was thick false lashes, glossy nail extensions, naturally plump lips and a waist small enough to wear bangles as belts. I admit it was fortunate I had got to know Roxy completely by the age of thirteen, when being friends with the sexy classtroublemaker was cool. As a grown woman, I suspected I would either have been too scared or too jealous to approach this beautiful, feisty Geordie lass to be my friend. Which only served to highlight another