Kizzy fly by night.

Untitled Part 1

Kizzy fly by night.

'Some people aren't who they say they are. Be cautious of the company that you keep.'

London Soho 7.00pm 1985.

The song 'Street Life' is blaring out of a car window, if you look over the road I'm here waiting to meet you. I have a lot to say so please stick with me.

I'm Kizzy. It's not my real name but I like it as I feel that it evokes some kind of mystery. My favorite thing in the world is to walk around the city at night and breathe in the sights and smells. I watch the way the cars all wind and twist along the roads. The way the Thames trickles or runs depending on its mood, all black velvet lit up with fire. I often stare into it when I've got a spare moment and imagine being carried away in its seductive embrace.

I love posh shop windows, the department stores that glow and entice with stuff that dreams are made of. I saw a doll the other day, beautiful she was like a princess. I had an urge to kick the window in and take her, but I didn't, I walked on by like I always do.

Watching feet is my hobby, hundreds of pairs clomping along paths impatiently as if they don't belong to the bodies that they're attached to. Some feet I recognize. Like old man Todd from the bakery. Every night without fail he whistles to me from the back door and gives me this bag full of bread and leftover sandwiches from the day. If I'm really lucky sometimes there might even be a cake. I don't know him that well but I like him. He has kind eyes and a nice smile.

What I normally do is go to a cafe on market place, wait until someone gets up then quickly sit in their seat and hope that they have left some coffee in their cup. (See I like to save money.) Then I watch and wait. Normally it's not too long until Mr city Perv spots me.

"Hello," he says. "Can I buy you a hot chocolate?"

"Sure." Big smile, coolness personified. 'I'm quite the actress.'

And then we make small talk. It's dead boring but necessary to gain trust and then we walk and talk some more. These lowlifes are all the same. They have small dodgy guilty-looking eyes that smile while they are trying to hide their true feelings and their innermost desires.

A few girls call out, winking as I strut by. "Got yourself a date Kiz?"

"Be lucky Kiz Wiz!"

I wink back, I'm always lucky. While I'm young that is. I don't worry about tomorrow or next year or the year after that. One day a cloud will just float on down and carry me off. And you never know...maybe the whole of London will miss me!

Sometimes the men only want to talk. We'll go to Hyde Park, sit down on a bench and chat an hour away. It's normally gloomy stuff about wives and kids and how no one understands them. I often wonder why they are telling me this as I'm no more than a kid myself but I act all interested while giving their hand a caring squeeze. They love that and give me a fatherly kiss on the cheek, which I don't mind really, it's better than the other option and it's a small price to pay for all that lovely money that's warming up inside my shoe.

Then there is the other kind. You know what I mean, the ones that whisk you off to a hotel room, all the while pretending that you're their kid. These are the worst as all they want to do is get you in that room and devour every inch of you. Think of a monster in a fairy tale and you'll get the picture... this is where it gets tricky. One false move and you could end up getting treated real bad, worst case scenario murdered!

I got a black eye once and the shit tossed me out of the room in my knickers. That didn't bother me, what really made me mad was the fact that he took back the money. I hurled myself against the door in fury until he called security to have me thrown out. They in turn frog marched me to an office and placed an urgent call to social services. God I just about made it out of the toilet window after snatching a coat. It makes me giggle thinking how I live up to my name time and time again. I own London and London owns me ha ha.