In the center of Zagreb, I am walking some thirty paces behind two short and plump women of about seventeen. They cackle from time to time as they waddle on their high heels, but I pay them little attention. At some point they start howling with laughter and slapping each other. “What in the world are the little bitches laughing about?” I am wondering. They quiet down rather quickly. Thirty paces later I pass by a shop window in which there are two male mannequins. The window is being refurbished, and both are thus naked. “What else could make the little bitches howl with laughter?” I am wondering. Reading teenage women’s minds is hardly an achievement to boast about, anyway.