• Vol. 10
  • Chapter 09


Huffing and puffing in shoes far too small, you get to your mark.
You’re annoyed that the first thing they say is,
‘Hey, I like your get up, how long did it take you?’
Take you? What with the prosthetic underwear, the tights,
The wig, dress and makeup, you’re exhausted and it's only 8:00 am.

After twenty years pounding the streets of New York City, you knew going undercover would be right up your street.
Visions of Al Pacino in Serpico, and Di Caprio in The Departed, had filled your mind’s eye,
But no, you’ve ended up as Mrs Doubtfire instead.

From the first, you know that your informer is not taking you seriously,
As they struggle to keep a straight face.
‘Just give me the intel,’ you demand, as you feel your blood pressure rise,
‘You keep me here any longer and you’ll blow my cover.’
In response they fumble for the package in the glove compartment.

Shifting from foot to painful foot, you think fondly of your number 12s
And how comfortable they would be right now.
The wig is beginning to make you scalp itch, the tights have given you prickly heat,
And the corset keeps pinching your chest hair.
The grass is always greener on the other side, they say, but all you see is, very, very brown grass.