I live in Irish Suburbia – in a satellite town outside a stunted city, in a housing estate surrounded by countless other housing estates, each one as wholesomely boring as the next. And, like any Massively Multiplayer Offline Role-Playing Fiasco, you get a right hodgepodge of pond-life in its environs  – ugly, swaggering ten-year-olds, elderly men wearing charity shop t-shirts with ill-advised slogans, SUV Mammies, neckless Bull Staff walkers. We’re a messy mix to be sure, but not necessarily an interesting one. You don’t get much out of people-watching in south County Cork, except a leeching of braincells and an unattractive squint.

Still, there’s one woman I see about the place who never ceases to make me gape. She’s … well, she’s one of these …

I have never in my life seen anyone as disturbingly narrow as this particular woman. She’s not just sinewy – she’s feeble, not so much minute as shrunken, like a withered carrot you find under the vegetable rack. She dresses in clothes marketed at teenagers – cute tops over leggings, bright dresses – possibly because she can’t wear anything designed for someone with boobs and an arse. She could be anywhere between thirty and forty-five. She wears big sunnies, so you can never quite see her face. Certainly you’ll find nothing in the way of personality radiating from skin stretched as tightly over a jawline as hers, though she salutes occasionally; she seems like a nice sort. But there’s no way you could fail to be disturbed by her brittle frame, or the fact that there’s so much space between her thighs you could slot her, sleeping, onto horseback.  A wee stick-figure, a Just Add Water woman; considering there’s so little of her there, it’s amazing that you can’t help but see her.

The natural reaction, I think, when you’re presented with someone so skinny, is exactly the same as when you’re presented with a bipedal hippo; you sneer. Yup. You make fun, but nasty fun – scornful, lip-pursing witticisms like, “Has she never heard of these things called SANDWICHES!” or “Someone’s been visited by the laxative fairy,” or “Barbie: Now in 2-D”. And to an extent, there’s not a huge amount wrong with being unimpressed by eating disorders, or the kind of mind-meltingly stupid vanity possessed by the likes of Victoria Beckham. Everyone loves looking at videos of models wobbling on the catwalk, after all.

I’m more vicious than most when it comes to the smart comments. Not only am I a total wagon, but I’m a wagon looking for a reaction. I am to hyperbole like a TD is to unbelievable shite – I spew hyperbole. I don’t even have to try anymore. I’m always looking for a laugh. My friends gave up telling me their problems years ago, because I’m always the one wedging the minor cracks in their stories wide open so I can jam an inappropriate wise-crack in there. Always chasing levity, swinging it ’round when I catch it so’s I can smack someone in the face with it. Laughter is a tool to break down the emotional barriers that stop you properly examining the murk you’re wading through. I really believe that. Alas that I believe it at the expense of others.

Anyway.

Whenever I see the skinny lady, I feel uncomfortable, full of pity, and also more than a little angry. I think, “How dare she get herself into this situation! Who has told her that this is a good look?” But then I make a smart comment, and my friends who are so sick of my rooting for the one-liner in every situation condone it, and giggle or smirk as required. Even though … well, the woman is sick, isn’t she? God knows how it feels to wake up every morning hungry, and go to bed every night hungry, and to stress continuously about food in the hours in between. Yet it’s so, so fucking natural to laugh at her.

And, y’know, one day soon she might not be there at all. Is it that fucking funny to see someone tease the Grim Reaper right in front of you?

…

Jesus. That was heavy (pun intended). How about watching a model fall over instead?

There you go. Have a healthy weekend, youse.