I had some jeans once - beautifully tight - which made a pronounced sound as I walked. The sound came mostly from the middle of my thighs, with the denim stretched tightly over them, rubbing against each other. It was exquisitely loud. I knew people could hear me coming, and as I walked by I knew people were gripped by the sound, knowing how it was generated. I felt like one of those globes which spark and crackle with electricity, touched by the flushed looks and scarcely contained excitement of those caught up in the theatre of my movement.
My mackintosh, a more recent acquisition, generates an even greater charge.
I slip it on, take a few steps, pull tight the belt, dive my hands into my pockets, take a few steps more. Cast an eye up to the darkening sky, raise my collar against the rain. Hands into the pockets again, some more steps, quickly now, as fast as the heels on my boots allow, down the busy street...
Not so busy as to miss my brilliant shimmer and rustling.
I feel a dozen eyes upon me, my mackintosh cool and slippery on my bare arms, its long length whispering busily about my urgent legs.
The voltage mounts, and mounts: and soars.
Round and round the thunder rolls, and the burning current flows.