Across the incalculable car parks of this great and noble land there lie the very pomegranates of our mutual awareness of the state of everyone’s individual wainscoting. I - for one – have tarried many a sun-filled afternoon, standing naked with my left knee painted blue in your vestibule as we re-arranged our mail order catalogues in a way we both found aesthetically-pleasing and sexually arousing. At least until you began backcombing your parakeets and I had to make my excuses and leave.
Then, I made my way along the ring road, clutching that special tin of corned beef you gave to me on the occasion on Napoleon Bonaparte’s birthday. Since that day I often have thought of the way you always apply sellotape to your chin before going out to meet the postman in order to enquire about the state of his gladioli. Then, after a pause to examine his franking machine before taking him deep into your potting shed to demonstrate your latest use of custard in an erotic context, you snigger at my paltry cheese-arrangements once again.
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