The artists hands

I don't normally take the bus, I used to think public transport was purely for the great unwashed, and perhaps I still think that. But beggars can't be choosers, so I get the bus, among the great unwashed. The rain is pelting against the windows, and even though its early afternoon, the sky is ominous. The seats are cheap plastic, look-a-like leather, and my skirt has risen and now my arse

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