Oh, those were the days and we were young then, playing nude table tennis until the dawn’s early light crawled its way over the distant hills, as you whacked my ping-pong balls back and forth with the dimpled paddle of your love across nets that caught and held all we could desire. Nor will I ever forget those forfeits when I lost, I will never be able to look as blackcurrant jam in the same way in the future, or be able to lick a protractor in mixed company ever again without remembering that campsite games room of yesteryear.
Now, though, you are long gone, lost in the mists of those long rainy Welsh summers of our young love, the nets of our table tennis-related dalliances long since packed up and put away in those cobwebbed boxes. My ping-pong balls, too, themselves now dented and dusty no longer bounce with the youthful vigour they once did, instead lying lost under the sideboard of what could so easily have been had we but world enough and time.
You, my young love, with your seemingly limitless supply of blackcurrant jam - especially considering the size of that tiny two-person tent – and your deep and abiding interest in the erotic possibilities of geometry, where have you gone now that we are no longer young. Do you still walk those Welsh hillsides and cliff tops remembering those days of naked table tennis too?