Magenta was tossing and turning in bed. Simon looked at her, her beautiful white skin and long raven hair. He knew that, of all the women in his life, she was his old lady, the one. She was cute, she didn't talk too much, like some airheads he had met, and what she said was worth listening to.

Her singing voice was something else - Joan Baez meets Judy Collins. She could sing the arse off a nightingale. He adored her, in his own selfish way. And Simon was worried. That freak at the pub last night, Vladimir, sashaying about in his upmarket Goth suit. I wish the hell he'd piss off out of her dreams, he thought. And that hairy Chongo - Simon was not racist, but this guy was bloody Neanderthal. Typical bloody women - they say they want a man who can talk to them, a gentleman, someone sensitive, but they all get hooked into these muscular, he men types, whatever the hell they pretend to themselves, they're hooked by the hairies. Well, Simon wasn't going to let Magenta go that easily. And Chongo HAD proven effective in pissing off Vlad the Cad. Maybe Simon could use this situation to his and Magenta's advantage, somehow.

Magenta was obviously dreaming, she was tossing and mumbling in her sleep, something about mince. Stange, Magenta was a veg - she's obviously been suppressing her desire for a good peiece of meat for sometime, thought Simon.