Citra had a great taste in leather miniskirts and a laissez-faire attitude towards the rest of her clothing, which I'm sure looked great in a tropical island paradise/dystopia but was a little out of place in mid-October London. She didn't seem to mind the cold, though.
We sat at a corner table in a Leicester Square cafe and talked about her difficult relationship with her ex-boyfriend for a while to fill in time, but it became apparent that the staff had forgotten about us entirely.
"Should I go up and say something?" I asked, peering round into the main room. She embedded a stone knife right in the centre of the table.
"TOO LONG you have asked for permission! You must TAKE what you want. That is the path of a true warrior."
"Righto. Shall I get us some menus, then?"
"The time for menus has PASSED. You must now catch and skin me a pig."
I didn't want to risk upsetting her by explaining that we were a long way away from the nearest pig, so I went to the bathroom to 'apply some more warpaint' and climbed out of the window, leaving her there.
Next up... The Redhead, from Monaco
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