Sitting next to her pint of Stella, Tracey grins wide as a house teeth crumbling blocks of cottage cheese; hands veiny as strobe light spaghetti. 'Yes it's me' she says, when we sidle up and ask her. She is clearly used to being approached like this. 'It's me, Tracey'. And she takes a sip cloudy pint meeting cloudy lips palms cooling against the cold glass tits typically unruly. Tracey grins and we watch lovely soft crumbs falling all around.