“They call me Dolores, queen of the whor-es,” she smirks, a little self-made ditty as she shrugs out of her Sunday Best and flits around the churchyard wearing nothing but a shiny crucifix necklace and a splash of Anais Anais. Inside, her old man leads the congregation as it Onward-Christian-Soldiers towards salvation. We sneak back in during prayer time and I can’t help but notice how the grave dew clings to her Crimplene dress as she begs for daily bread.
unpub
THE NORTH RIDING PROJECT 
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