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						M Y R A BY BOY GEORGE
		A curious phenomenon of the time. Tourists would pay up to a pound for a photo of a real live punk.  Sheila had turned herself into a living work of art.  Her scatter-cushion lips were vermilion, her face ghost white, her eyes painted a thousand colours.  She must have been up for hours. Jeremy took me round to Sheila´s bedsit  in Blackheath.  She instantly excused the decor.  The landlord´s got great taste.´ It certainly wasn´t as colourful as her cartoom face.  Pictures of her idols, Bette Davis and Marlene Dietrich, sat unframed on the mantelpiece propped up by burned-out candles and bottles of garish nal polish.  Vintage clothes hung from wire hangers along the wall, fifties cocktail dresses, mohair cardigans,  a pillbox hat with a dotted veil,a flamenco fan and a manky fox stole.  More colourful clothes littered the floor; she trampled them indiscriminatley while searching for a lost lipstick.  Her favourite soundtrack was Patti Smith´s Horses. ´Jesus died for somebody´s sins, but not mine ...´ Sheila wouldn´t even take the milk in without her make-up on.  It wasn´t  unknow for her to paint herself twice a day.  She preferred,  when she had time, to do it while taking a bath. She said the steam helped set her foundation. She loved cats but she was an undomesticated feline herself. She never had any food, milk or tea-bags,  junst plenty of Kit-E-Ka.  We used her flat as wardrobe base. She lived close to Blackheath station.  We could walk to the trains,  reducing the chances of abuse and attack. When Philip met Sheila he instantly renamed her Myra.  Her blonde beehive and second-hand tat made her look like the sixties murderess Myra Hindley. Philip said she should carry an axe in her handbag.  The name stuck.  She´s known as Myra to this day.  - BOY GEORGE - TAKE IT LKE A MAN MYRA    MENU