Ajüka on a harsh morning of a new week.
Suedes and patent leathers meet and smear each other.
An elegant rush.
ELSPETH sits unabashed atop her newsstand.
Unphased by the roar.
Pointing, laughing, galvanised by her own image.
Her newspapers sit abidingly, silently screaming their rhetoric, which is always at least 45% factual.
She knows no bounds and circulates every possible circle, revelling in the absurdity that is Ajükan life.
She sees everything.