Farting and lifting the leg at the same time, I felt happy to be free from the constrains of the office.

Paperwork had become laborious, and my colleagues had been away most of the day: paintballing was not my style.

Browsing through the local news reports on my tablet, I knew one of the faces pictured in a high definition police photo.

It had been a very long time, but I remembered the sharp outline of her eyes, and the soft cheekbones underneath them.

Time had left its bitter scar, and it was clear through her bruised skin and red eyes, that violence had been committed.

I found it hard to recall the name, but my memory was clear about the day she asked for money, dressed in a cotton suit with sloppy undertones, shoes scuffed and muddy.

Sadness overcame me, and with the feelings of empathy, I handed over the two pounds in my pocket.

I read the predictable story, shocked that nothing had been done for this person, no help, just violent use through prostitution and the enforcement of drugs.

I regretted reading the item, and thumbed the full issue back into choice.