The patron saint of village festivals

She glances at the mirror, tugs at her synthetic scraps of undersized clothing, and generously sprays her backcombed hair one last time, aware that it is going to be a long evening. Once a year, the village bikes have an opportunity to paint over their rancid spots with cheap make-up. Siren-like they envelop themselves in sweet clouds of discount perfume at the bargain counter in readiness to put drunken sops under their spell. The good Samaritan of the dingy backstreets answers the call of aggressive sisterly love. She takes pity on the drunken bodies whose last vestige of reason has evaporated in a pool of beer and does her best not to drown in it. Her practised fingers get to work. With the dexterity of a bedbug, her nails crawl over bodies to unbutton clothes and initiate some diverting friendships. She gives them warmth, affection and herpes. A memento of her compassionate gesture. Her selfless behaviour marks the pinnacle of her human endeavours that night. Freshly applied, the sinful red of the lipstick has the desired impact. Contented, she wipes off the crumbling remains with the back of her hand. A gesture that signified the conclusion of her services.

And when Gonorrhoea, Syphilis & Co. shake hands, the practised saint knows that the village festival was a success.