Sashaying, (or should I say, sacheting?) back, Rumps is eerily quiet. Not a solitary belch marks my return.

”TRAADAAAAAAA!” I shout, twirling around the ‘exercise’ pole for maximum impact.

Voluminous orange polyethylene billowing; his enchanting, porcine eyes feasting on me. “Damn!” My finger bleeding from an embedded cocktail umbrella. 

Thats when I spot her. My saboteur and potential garbage man thief I think, seeing the way they’re gawping at each other. 

The inspectors booming voice breaks my thoughts. Seems like cocktail brolly dolly and I are fighting for the same side. The fashion police won’t take us without a fight!