Lada

     “Used to?” said Bond.
     “She died.”
     “Didn’t survive then, did she,” said the landlord, a little unnecessarily thought Bond. “I'm not a man who would wish death on my worst enemy but I wish that bugger singing wouldn’t survive for much longer."
     Bond, fascinated by the sound, but a horrible fascination, made his way up the passage and looked through the open doorway.
     The room, maybe forty feet by thirty, was packed. There must have been a hundred people, probably more, most of who were seated at tables, the rest dancing on the postage stamp-sized dance floor in front of the tiny corner stage. There were about the same number women as men. By far the most popular drink was pints of beer, for both sexes. Amazingly, given the standard of entertainment on offer, they all appeared to be having the time of their lives, especially the women.
     Looking at the women Bond thought that M had maybe been a little hard on the female population of Stockport when he’d called them ugly. Their behaviour was ugly certainly, swigging pints of beer in a manner that wouldn’t disgrace a thirsty docker, laughing raucously the while. Women didn’t behave like that in Monte, that was for sure. But if they weren’t ugly neither would any of them ever be troubled by the problems of being beautiful, especially the one now crucifying I Will Survive. In a phrase they were no oil paintings, in a word unlovely; and while being called unlovely isn’t at all flattering it is definitely a notch or two up from ugly.
     Bond regarded the singer. She looked to be in her mid-forties but it was difficult to tell with all the make-up she’d trowelled on her face. Five feet two, Bond’s expert eye told him. Long peroxided hair; a blonde with a brunette base. She was dressed in a red crop-top and red silk hipsters, an outfit far too young for her years, mutton dressed as lamb if such a description wouldn't have been an insult to mutton. The outfit revealed a foot of bare midriff. Bond held the eminently sensible view that bare midriffs were fine as long as the women sporting them didn’t have a surplus ounce of flesh on them. The incarnation of Gloria Gaynor now howling at the microphone had about three stones of surplus flesh on her and a goodly portion of it had taken up residence between the bottom of her crop-top and the top of her hipsters. Bond shuddered at the very sight of it.