If the cardboard implication of all our cheese-flavoured accounting techniques fails to impress the reindeer, then I do not know what will happen to all those discarded blackboard easels that lie behind the steamer trunks of all our forgotten Tuesdays. You may think the same too, for I can see by the way that you have adopted the indignant stance of a MP, whose mendaciousness has been suddenly uncovered in a tabloid exposé, that you may be having unnatural thoughts about my sherry trifle, once more.
But, still, we had times, many times together in the stationery cupboard of workaday dalliances, and spent many hours together deep in the bracken patch of outdoor naughtiness, where the wine flowed like treacle and the treacle bound our shared nakedness together, at least until that day of the wasps.
Then there was that long dark Wolverhampton of the soul where the days passed like ponderous marching tower blocks grinding us deep under the town planning nightmares that always haunted our nights until one day we broke free of it all and took up mutual naked string arranging, deep in the forests of Walsall.
But now….
But now, I have seen you staring at the tambourine again and I grow fearful for my castanets.
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