She draped herself in her indigo silk dress, and threw on her fine purple paisley shawl. Her raven black hair cascaded down past her hips, fine flowers of carmine threaded through the flowing locks. It was evening, dark enough, and Magenta walked out the gate and up the road to the Erko Hotel. Thursday night, she walked up the battered back steps of the pub, went to the bar and ordered a double Cointreau on ice. Through the crowd she saw daubs of red and black, and heard the throb throb throb of "Bella Caio".

Magenta went out the back, the black tables were shiny with years of petrol smog and greasy fingermarks. Here were her mates, tipsy as usual, arguing about the state of the world and bolting down VBs. They were fresh from a gig at the Korean Worker's Club - where they had exchanged hearty songs for a few cheers.