Crystal

She was argueably the alpha female of our coyote pack and we hung off every sequinned word that dripped from her. Raised by her single mother and her single mother's gay best friend with a hippy-dippy free love mantra there was no other path for her except to enter a world full of glitter, leopard print and fabulousness.

Queen of the image re-invention, there were not many of us who could recall the natural hair colour of this platinum pixie-bobbed diva. With her exotic brand of foundation always smelling strangely of peanut butter and her false eyelashes thick like hairy spider legs, she resembled one of those department store Clinique make-up counter girls who wore the entire range on a daily basis. . . only it appeared that she has slept in that same make-up for at least two days. Although her skin, as far as I remember, was a pearly, milky white, she always looked like a slightly grubby street urchin where last nights Sun Shimmer had left an imprint in another man's bed.

I would always flash forward several decades down the line to a perfectly clear image of her as an old brown leathery skinned woman with perfectly coiffed (with the help of a whole can of hairspray) peroxide beehive, her tiny frail frame drowned in a floor length fur (not faux fur - controversially, rather like Cruella De Vil, she never could understand why animals shouldn't be sacrificed for the sake of fashion) coat. A cigarette holder dangled from between her rouged lips pursed like two dry withered prunes. Her clawed hands again lacquered with red polish gripped a crystal glass full of a firy amber liquid which swirls dangerously as she totters in sky high heels cladding her sheer stockinged legs. Growing old gracefully was not at option for Crystal. . . go out drawing attention to oneself with an undignified bang or theres no point at all.