The goats of all our lives are spread out now across the open fields of possibility, whilst the adjustable spanners of all our hopes lie discarded and forgotten at the bottom of our toolboxes. Still, we do have a pogo-stick, and Welshpool is not all that far away, although we promised to never darken their doors again after that incident with the chiropodist out on the ring road.
We have stood like the guitar heroes of destiny out on the supermarket car parks of what was once the shopping mall of all our dreams, but not we can only play hopscotch and laugh at the knees of those celebrities we once – so cravenly – envied for wide selection of cheeses made available for their cheeseboards.
You used to laugh, so carefree and easy, as we did naked bookkeeping together, but now the sight of my invoices leaves you cold. We could have sorted these receipts out together as the sun set over the stock control assistants, but now it is time for you to return to that place you came from, all those years ago. We grow old and tired and our knees will no longer allow us to tango until half past three every Thursday afternoon, not now the traffic lights mock us so blatantly.
Still we will always have Cirencester.
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