The sun is setting spectacularly over Victoria Lake, turning the lapping water gold and giving the garish green shirt in Bif’s outstretched hand a horrific, Disneyfied hue.
“Come on Abby,” she says, smiling menacingly at me. “Put it on.”
“I will not,” I insist, mulishly.
“Please Abby!”
“No.”
“But Abby,” Bif insists, through gritted teeth, “we’re the Lumo Ladies. We have to wear lumo.”
“I’m not a Lumo lady. I’m a jean pants kind of lady.”
“Not today,” Bif says, almost crying in desperation now.
“I’ll wear a Lumo hat,” I offer, partly looking for compromise, partly because I can see that I am about to be Sparta kicked off of the jetty and into the freezing water.
“You can’t wear a hat,” Bif says, suspiciously nervous. “It’ll cover up the blue wig.”
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Postcards from Somewhere 