The bus now gone, some semblance of normality returned to Stig and he hastily pulled up his corduroys, wrestling the ribbed fabric over the thick plastic-packed wadding of his Pampers while making nervous bird-like glances up and down the street. Luckily however it appeared to be deserted and, with his bladder in an unusually relaxed humour, he set off for Babel Point, his spirits temporarily renewed. However this uncharacteristic optimism was decidedly dashed when it dawned that he was lost, the street he had just turned into being totally unfamiliar.
    On the other side of the road was the unlit frontage of a declining frock shop which, for some inexplicable reason, caught the midget's attention. Apart from the gentle hum of a nearby ventilation shaft and the muted roar of distant traffic, a pleasing silence preponderated as he pressed his little face up against the glass and peered into the shadowy interior. Clad in a range of dowdy ensembles, several mannequins gazed out into the desolate street, one of which bared an eerie resemblance to a girl Stig had once dated, soon after he moved into his bedsit. She had been a mannequin, and he had salvaged her from a skip outside a shop similar to this one. Up until then he had been going around with a motley assortment of inflatable women, most of whom he'd procured from a local sex shop at knocked off prices. They had been solely used for shagging, thrown down onto the ominously stained mattress which constituted his bed and furiously humped before being swiftly deflated and stuffed in the trash. However what he had experienced with the mannequin ran considerably deeper than any series of carnal paroxysms enjoyed with some blow-up. He had named her Rosie, as she had long fair hair that instantly put him in mind of that sweet young creature from the dairy, and for many months she had taken pride of place in his bedsit, proudly erect by the window, gazing out over the innumerable chimneys and TV aerials of the drab red-brick terraces. He had even purchased clothes for her: skirts and blouses and the like, marching into town on wet Saturday afternoons and taking the women's departments by storm; on one occasion he had gone so far as to order a selection of matching bras and panties out of a catalogue. But all good things predictably came to and end as he had eventually tired of Rosie, and, on one notably dismal night, lugged her down to a nearby canal. As he departed the shop, he found himself wondering what exactly became of the dairy girl. Dead in a ditch most likely, for he suspected the worse, momentarily picturing a prostrate figure in flea market durables, slashed to ribbons in a frenzied attack.