Eventually the 356 wheeled around the corner and Stig found himself racking his corduroys for readies; all the while his sullen teenage companions eyed him suspiciously. The bus itself was largely unoccupied, bar a couple of young clerks in ill-fitting suits and the obligatory nutter, huddled up and unshaven, his furtive mumblings undoubtedly betraying a childhood every bit as hideous as Stig's. The driver was a belligerent old stick, overweight and unwashed (they usually are) who starred down upon the midget as he stood on tip-toe in order to avail the man with his fare. The teenage girls had deposited themselves near the front and they giggled when Stig waddled past, his super-absorbent nappy noisier than ever on account of the enclosed environment. He settled down slowly near the back, conscious of his Pampers, the plastic feeling like a second skin.

When the bus set off Stig couldn't resist tracking the prozzy at the streetlamp, part of him desperately wanting the woman to catch his eye. As he regarded her trashy attire, he still felt the pangs of inferiority however, after all, at least she worked for a living, unlike him, and even though her trade was both immoral and reprehensible - not to mention thoroughly illegal - she was still proud enough to earn her own keep. Stig had been out of work for a couple of years now, his last employ having been under that of a Mrs Rawlinson-Hodge: a decidedly eccentric granny who resided in a more affluent part of town. The job had entailed him lurking in an outlying region of her enormous estate, where he laboured as a garden gnome, indulging in various gnomish pleasures, such as fishing and shitting, much to the amusement of his batty employer and her ceaseless round of guests. The intractable brats that passed for Mrs Rawlinson-Hodge's grandchildren were also frequent visitors, and they regularly chose to vent their deep-seated aversion for gnomes on the one that lurked at the end of their granny's garden. Stig had understandably had enough when his employer had the gall to remark that her rotten little grandson was only playing after he viciously kicked the midget into the ornamental pond, and after that he had thrown in his notice, joining the ranks of the dole queue the very next day. Previously he had toiled as an elf in a half-arsed Santa's grotto; the kids being predictably ill-behaved and Father Christmas even worse.