She kicked off her silver ballet flats and stretched out her toes like a cat.

I missed the step and went arse over tit.

‘What sort of bullying does this sergeant go in for?’ ‘Character assassination,’ she said in a matter-of-fact tone that belied the very real difficulties it was causing her. ‘There’s a lot of whispering about slags and tarts behind my back and sniggers whenever I appear. Half of the men seem to think I’m a dyke who needs curing, the other half think I’m the platoon bicycle. …’

[…] Examine well His milk-white hand. The palm is hardly clean— But here and there an ugly smutch appears. Foh! ’twas a bribe that left it.