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Virtuality was turning me inside out, making me hungry for warmth, tantalising me with promises of closeness. And in re-imagining my memories I was allowing a lonely little girl to emerge. Just like in Joanna Russ’s story The Little Dirty Girl , when a successful academic finds a dirty starving kid on her doorstep who turns out to be an amalgam of everything she had not been allowed to be when she was a child, I had my own Little Dirty Girl. But I did not let her free. Instead, I skirted around the issue and convinced her that the life of a cyborgian spivak was so much better than that of a little kid, whilst also being emotion-lite and lots of fun. But somehow a sense of her would occasionally sneak out into fragments of memories...
