Jayne arrived at the council tip, as she did every week. She got out of her hatchback car as four council workmen surrounded her.
Obviously a helpless girly in distress, Jayne flicked her blonde hair. "Need a hand, luv?" one workman asked, with Dickensian sliminess, a snail trail in his wake.
"Oh yes please," said Jayne.
The workmen dispatched her bin bags. One of them closed the hatchback door and polished the handle with a germ-infested glove.
"There ya go!" "Thanks, boys."
Jayne was well aware that four burly council workers were no match for a short skirt and false eyelashes.