Sentence The Sevenhundredandeleventh

 

"Frieze!" yelled Pollyanna Perkins, throwing herself through the doorway and into the crowded bar; unfortunately a new band, Fishbone Diagram, a Garage Grunge/Trash ensemble from Paisley had just launched into 'My Old Man's a Junket' and Pollyanna's entrance was, unsurprisingly, unnoticed by anyone except Carmine Rose, her lover, long-time companion and – surprisingly, considering how much she knew about Pollyanna – best friend, Head Bartender in Lucky Luke's Lounge, the New Best Place To Be in town; Rose handed Pollyanna a single measure of Laphroaig and said: "that's on the house, babes, but you want any more, it goes through the till; this crap comes off at 9pm and that's when you're on – don't blow it, I've mortgaged my job for your gig tonight!" so Pollyanna leaned across the bar, pulled Rose's face close to hers, and gave her the kind of kiss that melts snow in the deep midwinter, before sauntering through to the changing-room, cum broom cupboard, cum staff toilet, where the only mirror was balanced on a box of Jeyes Fluid and the light was a twenty watt candle bulb without a shade, which hung from a twisted flex and moved in the constant draught from the gaps in the floorboards and walls.