Our Mackerel Bucket Grows Old

Still we do not stand on the railway station platform with a bucket of fresh mackerel fillets any more, our days of young, heady, romance are over now and our mackerel bucket grows old and dusty with disuse. Still, though, there are times when we sit together to calibrate our tinned goods by size, in order to create a pleasing and useful display in our cupboard and we dance through the garden centres where we bought the very first seedlings of our desire for colourful flowerbed displays. However, these days your tambourine is not what it was and I have a severe pain in the castanets whenever I attempt anything more rigorous than a tango in the kitchen as we wait for the kettle of our love to come to the boil.

There were days when we would wander hand in hand down the supermarket aisles of possibility, seeking out the unusual biscuits of experimentation and the unusual foreign foodstuffs of daring as we tested the very limits of erotic shopping together. Never before had we experienced such intimate intertwinings near so many jars of strawberry jam before, at least until the store detective ejected us from the premises, leaving the trolley of our lustful dalliances standing forlorn and alone in the preserves aisle, never for us to return.