She shuffled awkwardly forwards in the queue, kicking the bag along the pathway in front of her with her battered sneakers and ran her bitten fingers through her matted hair, sighing audibly as she did so. The others waiting in line wrinkled their noses in disgust at the somewhat ripe smell surrounding her slight body, moving out of the way slightly, yet keeping their spot whilst trying to pretend they hadn’t noticed her. She thrust a hand deep into her jacket pocket in a somewhat theatrical manner and rifled around for a moment or two expelling several used tissues and some empty sweet papers, until she found what she was looking for. Her queue mates made noises of disapproval as the debris were caught by the wind and blown along down the street like pieces of confetti, but no one actually said anything to her. Hesitantly yet deliberately she dialed the number into the mobile phone she had retrieved and pressed send, screwing up her bright blue eyes against the early morning sun and exhaling a cloud of frosty breath. "Mum it’s me, don’t speak, no credit... I’m coming home," she said, then promptly burst into tears.
Loobell - harassed middle aged mother, badly lapsed blogger - is fed up with taking the blame. She once showed us the Light at the End of the Tunnel.