Observational interpretation.

Danny had to go, boat earrings in and fur coat down to bare thigh, to the corner of the high street to earn the dollar, dollar.
This was a cheeky love from street to heat in 0 to 30 and back again.
Every step taken was on broken, strapped heels.
Every moment was full of disposable images, astounding and profound snapshots of a modern age.
There were cuts on pale ankles and by the end of the night Danny's throat was horse and every stranger needed a deep clean and each weary body ached.
On Monday morning Danny was at a call centre, "NationalLine" or some such nonsense, feebly gathering, grasping and gasping for coffee, between further customer assistance.
"Hello, sorry for your wait. I am Daniel, NationalLine advisor, how can I help?"
"I've lost my credit card."
"Ok, can I have your full name?"
"Poppy-Jayne May Banks." He sighed.
"I think I'd die in your profession." I mumbled.
"You don't know how right you are."
I sat outside a cheap, late night eatery pitying that poor fellow before questioning whether I should really pity myself. I stumbled in, in my suede coat and my boat earrings, to collect my order regardless.