Battle Ballerina Effulgent seems to carefully consider her comrade's words, head tilted. Finally she stabs a thumb-length wooden fork into her greasy paper-wrapped battered fish and chips.
"You're 'avin a bubble," she says scornfully. "You wanna jump on a train and go and fight Ultimo at the London Eye because Ultimo said so? Fuckin' trap, mate, innit."
Battle Ballerina Ineffable scowls and cracks open a lukewarm can of Irn-Bru. "I don't effin' know, do I?" she pouts aggressively. "All this effin' magical girl bollocks. It's not like there's an effin' magical girl GCSE, is there?"
"You'd have fuckin' failed it anyway, mate," Effulgent says with cheery malice, and Ineffable wheels around to Battle Ballerina Resplendant, who's upending the crumbs of a bag of Wotsits directly into her upturned gaping mouth.
"She's 'avin a fuckin' go at me," Ineffable complains shrilly. "She's always 'avin a faackin' go at me, did you hear her, the faaaaaaackin' caaaaaaaaahnt—"
"She's not wurfit, Eff," Resplendant says dismissively. "She's just jealous, innit—"
"Jealous, wot am I jealous of? All your fuckin' chlamydia? You fuckin' slaaaaag—"
"Well if I'm so thick, how come I'm not the faaaaaaackin' caaaaaahnt who punched the faaaaaackin' Pope cuz I thought only evil wizards wear faaaaaackin' ROBES—"
