𝗰𝗵𝗼𝗼𝘀𝗲 𝗹𝗶𝗳𝗲 ▸ 𝘁𝗿𝗮𝗶𝗻𝘀𝗽𝗼𝘁𝘁𝗶𝗻𝗴

𝘁𝗵𝗿𝗲𝗲. iggy pop, shopping, and football

~𝗜'𝘃𝗲 𝗻𝗲𝘃𝗲𝗿 𝗯𝗲𝗲𝗻 𝗰𝗹𝗼𝘀𝗲𝗿, 𝗜 𝘁𝗿𝗶𝗲𝗱 𝘁𝗼 𝘂𝗻𝗱𝗲𝗿𝘀𝘁𝗮𝗻𝗱 𝘁𝗵𝗮𝘁 𝗰𝗲𝗿𝘁𝗮𝗶𝗻 𝗳𝗲𝗲𝗹𝗶𝗻𝗴, 𝗰𝗮𝗿𝘃𝗲𝗱 𝗯𝘆 𝗮𝗻𝗼𝘁𝗵𝗲𝗿'𝘀 𝗵𝗮𝗻𝗱, 𝗯𝘂𝘁 𝗶𝘁'𝘀 𝘁𝗼𝗼 𝗹𝗮𝘁𝗲 𝘁𝗼 𝗵𝗲𝘀𝗶𝘁𝗮𝘁𝗲, 𝘄𝗲 𝗰𝗮𝗻'𝘁 𝗸𝗲𝗲𝗽 𝗼𝗻 𝗹𝗶𝘃𝗶𝗻𝗴 𝗹𝗶𝗸𝗲 𝘁𝗵𝗶𝘀~

The year was 1996. Music had never been better. A cramped flat in the middle of Edinburgh was buzzing with energy. The pulsing purple glow could be seen as a nostalgic flicker from the street, a sign of life behind the cold, corporate buildings. The window was cracked wide, releasing a gentle hum of the chart hits into the open air.

The year was 1996. And Lana knew all the words to Ironic, Glycerine, Big Me, and Killing Me Softly. She sang through each one under the glare of the television, dancing around the flat with a beer in her hand as he made comments about her form. She tried on dresses from the suitcase back at the squat and pranced about in his outrageous jumpers and shirts in preparation for their night out.

The year was 1996. The year Mark Renton fell in love.

Admittedly, methadone wasn't a tenth of what smack was. But a strong dose of it alongside the relentless drinking culture of nineties Scotland and her rough European fags was nearly enough to get by. Renton was the rest. The mornings were a little awkward as he didn't speak much, but by lunchtime, he was far more alert and cracking out boredom-curing ideas every other hour. That night required no ideas. The gig was planned as follows:

Retrieve clothes from Allison.

Get changed at Renton's place.

Consume ideally enough alcohol to cure all nerves concerning Sick Boy and Begbie.

Head out to the club.

Find a lad who somewhat resembles Mark Renton.

Get as pissed as budget will allow.

Under shagging circumstances (and above all else), do not say his name.

She was currently under the second phase of this foolproof plan to achieve an acceptable, non-heroin based scratch. Though the list remained in the back of her thoughts, Lana was content doing her best Alanis Morissette impression.

'Is there one of these you don't know?' Mark sipped a can of Export.

'I'll let you know if the event occurs.' She waved it off with her hand. 'What do you think of this?'

Mark looked up. A hundred words sprung to mind when he looked over her baggy jeans and leather jacket, but the more appropriate ones happened to be, 'Won't you be too hot?'

'I'm sweatin like a pig already,' she said defeatedly.

He swallowed another gulp and dismissed, 'Just lose the jacket.'

'No, Mark, I can't just lose the jacket because then we'll be wearin the same fuckin thing!'

He looked down at his own jeans and shirt and instantly began nodding, shifting in the chair positioned at the other end of the room. Had it been Sick Boy rifling through every item of clothing he'd ever owned, he might have complained a little more. But while Simon would pose simply by flipping him off and continuing with his over-elaborate theories connecting all world tragedies with gibberish, Lana moved along to the blaring music with enthusiasm. It was almost a show. And Mark was more than happy to witness it. 'You're nae wrong. Somethin else,' he agreed.

Lana hummed as she spun behind the door and began to strip once more. As she stepped into her last option, messy acoustic guitar chords drifted through the air. She was sure she'd heard this one before - it was those Radiohead guys. It was a little too experimental for her liking, but it was a good track nonetheless. The dress was a simple little number; her mother had bought it for her, having seen Drew Barrymore wearing something similar at a red carpet event. By itself, it would be too cold and so she slipped the same jacket back over her shoulders.