In the shop window is a naked mannequin squinting at me saying ‘Why have you got two arms when I’ve only got one and a half?’ Its head is shiny and eyes are empty, vacant with painted lashes. There is a crease at the waist, the bit where the two halves of the torso meet. Do people notice my scar, I wonder? But I don’t show them. I don’t parade around in shop windows, naked, leering at passers-by, people in the bus queue, hanging around shamelessly naked with my friends. Yes, I’ve seen the others too. They’re all the same, posing provocatively, pointing fingers extended, hard and unrelenting. I thought it was androgynous until I looked at the others; less painted, a fixed, arrogant gaze cast across the street, a challenge. To describe their colour would be difficult. It’s neither pink, nor orange, nor brown, just hard and decisive. I don’t like the male one or its square jaw and cheeks. Not natural or inviting. Not like the first one. At first, I thought she was a naughty mannequin but compared to the others, she’s quite angelic. She’s got a sister, I see, in the next display. I know they’re sisters because they look alike. I wonder if they’re twins. Her sister’s getting married. I hope she’s not marrying that pig next to, next to – what’s her name? – I think she’s called Gloria, glorious Gloria. I hope that Gloria’s new brother-in-law is a good husband. I hope he’s a good listener. I suppose that mannequins don’t talk that much so maybe it won’t matter too much but then that’s a bit of a worry. If you don’t talk then you’ll never solve anything. Counselling, that’s what they need. I hope they sort it out. Got to go, catch my bus.