Her wardrobes were full of designer clothes

That she knew she could not afford

Without the help of her credit cards.

Each Friday night a new skirt or dress

To make her latest lover impressed.

Every Sunday she would start afresh

As she realised that the latest one

Was nothing but a bore, not interested

In the long term, just the now and here.

On the shelf at eighteen is a terrible fear.

Her advice came thick and fast

From sex columnists in thousands of mag’s

That littered the floor, discarded