“Everything’s just ‘me, me, me’ nowadays, isn’t it?” tutted Auntie Glenda grumpily. Emma murmured in vague agreement, but she knew that Glenda was being unduly bitter. Things had been pretty fucking ‘me, me, me’ in her day too, especially that time when a six foot eight adult film star had arrived at her local pub and all the women had run toward him and screamed to be the one he picked to take away. Glenda had been the winner – of that little contest and, later, his colossal wand of hot meat pressing outward against the walls of her flanginal socket.