You Stole My Thunder

She's a banjo-playing, bellydancing credit controller too close to thirty for comfort.

She spends her days shouting at debtors, swearing too much, silently seething and frustrated by idiotic work colleagues. She goes home to her landlord house mate: a meek, one-footed local boy. She is demonstrative and demanding; happy in her individuality; the queen of quirkiness.

People, time and natural selection are plotting against her. She's no longer the youngest, freshest eccentric in town. Big changes are coming, and between the dancing Cherry, marketing men and Icelandic music she's got to decide just which path she is going to walk.