How to Find Friends in London

A Very Voracious Vagina

"Remember Oliver?"

Indira's voice was thick, as she took another bite from her Pret sandwich.

I surveyed my tea for a moment, the pale insipid liquid offering no insight into who Oliver was.

"No." I took an immediately regrettable sip of the tea and frowned.

Indira shrugged, and swept a hand through her hair, a few errant bread crumbs noticeably standing out amongst the black.

"You reckon Tim will be interested in my article then?" I prodded her, sloshing some tea onto the table. This earned me a reproving glare from an overly zealous Pret employee. He wielded his table cleaning cloth at me menacingly, and I shifted my glance back to Indira, whose gaze was focused somewhere over my shoulder.

I waved my hand in front of her, and she refocused on me. Though now she was chewing on her sandwich with great gusto.

"Cor, look at him." She gestured with a nose, now slightly smeared with pickle.

I looked back to see an overly developed man wearing an overly tight shirt and trousers. I turned back round, Indira was intent on what would presumably be her next bed warmer of the evening.

Indira was like that, she could barely stand to be on her own. To her, other women were simply categorised as 'not men'. She didn't sleep around often, but her appetite for some sort of male attention was a black pit. I was, according to her, a rare unfuckable friend. I suspected, I was only a constant in her life as a way in which she could regale her conquests or to drag out for lunch as I still had an NUS card that got her a 5% discount at most sandwich shops. She was a study in calculated mess and looks, there was something almost feral in her face; tan of skin and full of lip she always looked angry. But not in the way my resting face looked mad (I simply looked constantly mildly irritated), the natural anger in her face was vivid and paunchy and sexy. She grew her dark hair long and never wore tights to hide her long, lean legs.

She was a laugh, really. But not when she had her eyes set on a new challenge.

"See you later then, Indy." I winced inwardly, I hated it when I said 'then', it was embarrassingly passive aggressive.

She barely grunted in response, I could practically feel the heat emitting from her very voracious vagina. As I swung my backpack on, I noticed Indira's nose and hair was suddenly free from any errant sandwich remanents, as she made eyes at her next prey.

I stepped out of the Pret and onto a bustling Tottenham Court Road; noticing that for the past two months London had not deviated from

It's default weather setting. Which, granted, was a fairly rare occurrence anyway. The sky was perpetually the colour of unwashed underpants, and the air was the sort of cloying moist that would stick in your throat for weeks. I coughed wetly, my hands patting my pockets for a bag of tobacco that wasn't there.

I shoved a tenner over the counter at the tiny vendors stall sandwiched between the royal theatre and a Dorothy Perkins. Slipping my newly acquired Camels into my pocket, I could hear mums terse voice floating into my head,

"Good asian girls do not smoke!" Then a more world weary, "couldn't you at least smoke menthols?"

A purple plume of smoke followed me, the orange nub of my fag the only bright thing as I walked further away from TCR.