Time transforms our dreams into dust. When I think back to that summer and what it meant and who we were then, I’m resigned to knowing that everything that has happened since is a derivative of those last few months together. I don’t even need to close my eyes and I can be back there in an instant. I can recall every single detail. I can be transported to that place.

Years have gone by since. How many? I couldn’t say for sure. Our capacity to remember is deceptive. We filter out the stuff we want to forget, and cling to the good times. Except it doesn’t always work like that. Does it?

The sun appeared, spring rolled into summer, and with it came hope and infinite possibility. There was something about the place at that time of year. If you knew the landscape well enough, there were no limits to what was waiting to be discovered out there. We grew up in that little town by the sea, all four of us, it was our home. But it was a town to be raised in, a town to retire in. It was not a town where one might fulfil their dreams. Each of us knew that it was coming to an end. We had discussed it, planned it, spoke about it with feverish excitement and melancholic sentiment.

Do you remember diving off the rocks behind the pool? Drunk on the promise of what was to come. Or maybe it was the booze. I don’t know. But it became a daily ritual. Like breakfast, or brushing our teeth, or going for a crap.

Then there were the girls. Backpackers in search of an adventure themselves. How lucky it was that fate led them to us that evening. We spent two weeks showing them our home. I think we all fell in love. There was something in the air. The water. Their eyes.

We fought a lot too. Rarely with each other, but we could find a fight with almost anyone else. Usually it was just a case of sending Mickey in there to hit on somebody’s girl. I’ve never been the violent type, but there was something glorious about what happened next; the crunch of knuckles on flesh, the blood, the bruises. The process was unifying. It was us against them, us against the world. We were a big fat cliché and we didn’t care less.

You had spoke about the city, I had booked my ticket out, Tommy was keen on pursuing a romance and Mickey was always going to stay. He belonged to that town, it was part of his DNA. His dad had promised him the business and that was enough for him. The rest of us had families too, but they merely served as a caution, a reminder as to why we wanted out. I asked you what you planned to do in the city, you just shrugged your shoulders and smiled. I plan to live, you said. No further explanation was needed.

There were parties galore. We’d go for days without sleeping. Sometimes owed to the influence of enhancers, sometimes it was just the buzz of life itself. I can still hear the sound of teeth grinding, of bass-lines thumping, and screams of ecstasy and euphoria. I can still hear it now. Ringing in my ears.

Can you still taste it? Smell it? The salty air, like nothing else. It filled up our lungs. Intoxicated us all. I guess that’s why we grew so attached. Why everyone grows so attached. And as the years slip away, as we become older, not necessarily wiser, but more stubborn, it becomes even harder to let go. I wish I could let go now though. Things will never be that way again. And I’m sick of holding on. I’m sick.

We cycled bare-chested along the coast, no hands, arms stretched out like the wings of a bird. It’s the closest we’ll ever come to flying, you said, forgetting that day we ate mushrooms in the woods. We built bonfires and lit fireworks and smoked and laughed and drank to our heart’s content. We chased girls, hunted animals, lay in the surf.

There was a campsite nearby. No tents, just expensive caravans. We’d wait until it got dark, pull balaclavas over our heads and terrorise the tourists. Remember the one time you almost got caught by the owner? We had a head-start on you, so once we’d reached the wall and knew we were safe, we sat there and watched you and tried not to laugh. The terror on your face as he closed in on you. The baseball bat he held in his hand spinning above his head like the propeller blades of a helicopter.

Looking up at the clouds one afternoon, I asked you what you could see. Whatever I want, you replied with a smirk, a thin grey fog escaping your lips as you spoke.

The car belonged to your father. It was a beat up old Vauxhall Astra. Once dark, but by then faded blue. We agreed it was was important that we saw the woods one last time, even though this feeling in the pit of my stomach suggested otherwise. Then the rain started to fall. Buckets of rain, your favourite Dylan song.

I’m not sure what I hope to achieve by returning. I know Mickey will be there, he never did leave. I heard all sorts of rumours about what happened to Tommy, but I never bothered to investigate which of them were true. I didn’t want to know. I am scared of the reality.

It poured and it poured. A barrage of tiny silver bullets, spat down from the heavens above.

And I remember that awful screeching sound, like nails down a blackboard. And then nothing.

And even though I remember it happening and the way I felt and how it was suddenly as if everything made sense to me, like life itself had finally shown me a meaning, I couldn’t tell you why I plummeted so uncontrollably and instantly or what caused me to thump thump thump when I landed. But that is the nature of the beast I guess and although every single one of us thinks we know what we want or what we need or who we need, we don’t really know, not really, we don’t, ever, do we? No. Yet still I remember every single detail. Every tiny inconsequential footnote. Every thought. Every urge. Every touch. Every smell. Every taste. Every look. I remember when it dawned on me. The beginning and the end. I remember the first kiss, the first time I made her laugh, the first time I made her cry, the first time I realised I was happy, the first time I realised I was depressed. The first time. I remember feeling sick because I felt so good and sick because I felt so bad. I remember the face. I remember the eyes, the nose, the ears, the lips, the teeth. I remember how her hair fell over one eye. I remember the funny way in which she wiggled her nose. I remember thinking how delicate she was, how fucking fragile and yet how brave at the same time. I remember the body. Naked, stripped and pure. I remember that walk by the sea and that time in my bed. I remember the things that she said and the the things I wished she had but never did. I remember knowing and not knowing and believing and not believing and feeling like the planets had aligned and everything was good and then seeing this same world we built collapsing and caving in on itself and crushing us and knowing there was nothing I or we could do to save ourselves no matter how hard we tried. It all becomes so futile. And so I am left asking what it is exactly. What it means. What she meant. How can something or someone that gives you so much take it all away just as easily? I am a sucker to temptation and when I fall, I fall heart-first, head-second with every ounce of me following close behind. Love. All consuming, undeniable, relentless and absurd. It makes us delirious, light-headed, giddy, angry, confused, bewildered, anxious, proud, optimistic, cynical, brave, scared, cold-hearted and weak at the knees. It is the butterflies dancing in our stomachs for that person we know, we’ve heard about, or we imagine to exist. It is the wind in the trees, that boat on the horizon, and the sunrise in the autumn. It is the hairs that stand on end, the hands that squash our soul, and the breath that resuscitates and brings us back to life. It taught me how to be a better person and paradoxically transformed me into an arsehole. It is the best and the worst drug on the market, with more victims, more believers, more addicts than anything else. And most of us are just as helpless as one another, intoxicated by desire and lust and hopes and dreams and movies and music and literature and blind fucking faith. It is not something we can bottle up and collect and administer at will, no matter how many new perfume adverts tell us otherwise. It is not something that can be defined by chocolates or flowers or cute, cuddly toys. Nobody ever really needs to be given a fluffy bear clutching a heart-shaped balloon, and anybody who does demand that they are given such an item, should be dealt with a cold hard slap to the face immediately. If companies and shops really wanted to make a buck on Valentine’s Day, they should sell photographs of a fuck-off nasty grizzly holding an actual human heart aloft in his paw with the caption: this is what you do to me, scrawled in blood underneath. I think more of us might relate to that.

My lips have been bragging ever since you first lay a smacker on them.

Now they won’t stop banging on, asking questions, anticipating when it might happen again.

Because the first time felt like I’d been sucker-punched. Or like when I try to execute a bicycle kick on the football pitch but fail to arch my back properly and end up winding myself. It knocks the stuffing right out of me.

And it’s left me with a sense of uneasiness. Like when you trap a wasp under a glass. What do you do then? Leaving him to suffocate seems cruel but the second you try and set him free elsewhere he’s going to go mental and attempt to sting you, right?

And that feeling isn’t something that I would usually enjoy. But when it’s you doing the damage I can’t stop myself coming back for more.

‘It just isn’t right,’ you say, frowning at the site of me on my knees amongst all this stuff, before tossing me an empty bin-bag on your way out the door.

But despite what you say, I love every single one of these so called ‘awful woolly jumpers’.

Plus winter is on its way soon.

And though I haven’t got round to it yet, I have every intention of reading Popular Marine Fish For Your Aquarium ~ Volumes 1-8.

And The Beginner’s Guide To Philosophy.

And that Dickens collection might be worth something someday.

I may not own a record player, but it’s only a matter of time. So while it may seem impractical to you, I’d prefer not to get rid of the multiple stacks of vinyl and cassette tapes.

That Talking Heads single is a rarity.

And I bought the Mousehole Male Voice Choir LP because I liked the cover, but also because my granddad used to sing with them. Although he was a bit of a dick, he’s dead now, so it’s nice to have a little something to remember him by.

Still, you’ve no sympathy when it comes to my predilection for nostalgia. And even I find it difficult to justify keeping a sculpture of an owl constructed from the different parts of a dismantled clock.

So you’ve given me a deadline. If at least half ain’t gone by Sunday, then it’s goodbye.

In hindsight, I probably shouldn’t have arranged to go rummaging in my favourite Causeway Head haunts this afternoon.

But it’s been a while since I’ve visited Barnado’s.

And my mum’s already tipped me off about an old tweed jacket in Oxfam.

Once upon a time, I was England’s Youngest Private Detective.

I think it’s fair to say, that I was a strange and eccentric kid growing up.

Previous to my career as a fledging private eye, I had convinced myself into believing that I was the reincarnation of the Son of Krypton and Protector of Planet Earth©: Superman, and I would go into school each day with my home-made Superman outfit on beneath my genius disguise of basic school uniform. Then, in the playground at lunchtime I’d disappear behind a wall, only to reappear seconds later in said Superman outfit – the cape that hung from my shoulders constructed from one of my mum’s old and unwanted moth-eaten curtains – devoid of any actual superpowers but blessed with the amazing gift of being able to make girls run away from me as fast as they possibly could, screaming for help as I lurched towards them with my fist extended and my curtain – sorry, cape – billowing behind me in the wind. All I wanted, was to save them from any of the many terrifying dangers you might encounter within the confines of a primary school playground… But I think most of them just thought I was a nutter, who was going to punch them.

So the Superman thing didn’t really work out and I moved on to being James Bond instead; turning up for school one day with black shoe polish smeared through my hair in an attempt to make myself look like Sean Connery, dressed in a Tuxedo, with a black leather briefcase in hand, which I told my fellow pupils had been specially doctored so that it could blow up in the faces of any enemy if I ever found myself in the necessary life-threatening situation…. The response I got from my teachers, however, was to go home, wash my hair and take the Tuxedo off.

So being James Bond didn’t really work out for me either, and I was forced to reconsider my options. ‘What this place needs is its very own Robin Hood!’ I decided, but I soon grew tired of donning a home-made tunic and a pair of my mum’s tights, even if it did mean I could traipse around all day with a large wooden bow stretched across my torso. Before long my brothers and I formed Cornwall’s very own Ghostbusters service. But the business never really got going. Whereas Dan Akroyd, Harold Ramis and Bill Murray possessed state of the art, hi-tech Proton Packs to defeat the supernatural, me, Seth and Max used empty cereal boxes strapped to our backs with string, and the bare cardboard cylinders from a multi-pack of kitchen rolls to deputise for the Neutrona Wands. One of the easiest outfits to acquire was that of Indiana Jones. But my granddad’s brown leather jacket and trilby were both way too big for me, and I ended up looking like nothing more than a shit cowboy.

However, when I hit the grand old age of nine and I was able to look back and reflect upon the ridiculousness of my many former lives, I discovered the work of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, and more importantly his most famous creation: Sherlock Homes. I was immediately besotted. Finally, here was a character I could really relate to. James Bond, Robin Hood, Indiana Jones, Superman… they were all action heroes, with huge muscles who were good at fighting. I was a scrawny nine year old who liked books and solving puzzles. This was more my thing. That Christmas, as well as receiving the standard issue selection of chocolate coins, tangerines and socks in my stocking, I was also given a deerstalker hat and a run of my very own business cards, which my mum had a friend print off on her brand new top-of-the-range Hewlett Packard computer. Written on plain white card, in black ink, size 12, Times New Roman font, the cards read: Callum Mitchell – Private Investigator – Discretion Guaranteed. Then beneath those three lines was my home telephone number. (Information my parents later regretted printing on what was essentially a toy for a weird kid, as it led to numerous prank calls and odd enquiries from fruit-cakes.)

I became infatuated with the idea of being a detective. I wrote my own murder mystery novels, watched Inspector Morse and A Touch Of Frost religiously, and devoted myself to studying any book that gave away any useful tips on the profession, or the art of deduction. My brother Seth even made a poster which we blu-tacked to the living room window so that any passers by would be informed about the agency I was setting up in the basement of my parents’ house. The sign read Callum Mitchell: Four Foot High – Private Eye, and word soon spread round the neighbourhood, which, incidentally, hadn’t had a single crime committed there in living memory.

But this was only the beginning.

One afternoon as my dad and I walked past the local newspaper office on Parade Street in Penzance, I stopped dead in my tracks, gazed up at him, and with absolutely no trace of irony whatsoever, I said: ‘Dad, I would like you to go in there and put an advert in the paper for my detective agency please.’ Now, understandably, when confronted with this sort of demand from a nine year old offspring, most parents in a similar position would probably just laugh it off and say something along the lines of: ‘Don’t be so bloody silly, boy.’ But my dad, he was different, you know? He didn’t do this. No. Even though, in hindsight, perhaps he should have done, he didn’t want to be the one to crush my dreams… And I think he knew in that moment, when he looked into my eyes – my big, brown, some might even say ‘beautiful’ eyes – I think my dad knew, that I wasn’t mucking about, you know? This wasn’t child’s play. This was some serious shit… I was going to carry on at school, sure, but I was also going to moonlight as England’s Youngest Private Detective.

And so, seeing what this meant to me, my dad marched straight into the offices of the local newspaper, walked straight up to reception where he was greeted by a couple of young females on the front desk and told them that he wished to place an advertisement for my services to the community. However, the response these young girls gave my dad and his sincere request, was to laugh in his face… Before telling him that they didn’t think this would be possible. So my dad left the girls with one of my business cards, walked out, informed me of the bad news and we returned home; our heads hung, my dream to become the next Sherlock Holmes seemingly in tatters.

But then something strange occurred. Later that day, we got a phone call from one of the senior reporters at the local paper, who had been told of my dad’s plea earlier that day by the hysterical girls on reception. The reporter said that although they couldn’t place an advert for a nine year old detective in the paper – that it was too much of a risk and if taken seriously, I might find myself in all sorts of bother – instead they would very much like to run a feature and front page article on the story.

And so they ran the story the following week and soon I received my first big case courtesy of a neighbour who asked me to track down their missing… woolly glove. Upon successfully completing this enquiry I was then informed of the local shopkeeper’s concern at misplacing his wedding ring and quickly set about finding it, armed with my deerstalker hat, magnifying glass, Spy File and false nose and moustache… Just in case I ever needed to disguise myself as an unrecognisable hairy dwarf. As my burgeoning reputation as a super sleuth grew, so did the media interest surrounding the story. I was contacted by Westcountry TV who sent their intrepid reporter Sarah Lillicrap along to my parents’ house in Newlyn to interview me. The result was a five minute piece they aired on that evening’s local news, where both the anchors of the show struggled to contain their laughter when trying to talk about the story seriously. I was also featured in The Funday Times – the kids pull out section of The Sunday Times. Both publications very similar of course, except that the Funday Times was just that little bit more…fun. Not only that, but my parent’s were then given £150 – of which I never saw a single penny – when they allowed me to be the subject of a double page spread in the much respected and revered publication… Women’s Realm, as well as appearing on Radio 4 where I was given advice by the Head of the Metropolitan Police on how best to go about pursuing my chosen career as well as some very kind – slightly patronising now that I think about it – words from a chap called Nicholas Rowe, the actor who played the role of Young Sherlock Holmes in the 1985 Steven Spielberg produced, Barry Levinson directed film of the same name. When quizzed by the Radio 4 broadcaster about my life as England’s Youngest Private Detective, I replied, live on air, in the squeakiest voice imaginable: ‘It’s been okay so far, I’ve solved the cases but they’ve all been a little bit boring to be honest. I’m looking forward to getting my teeth stuck into something really juicy, a proper crime… like a murder or something.’ A statement of intent, sure, but also a statement that most people wouldn’t really expect to fall out of the mouth of any normal nine year old boy.

And so time passed, and regrettably I was never given a murder to investigate. In fact, after the initial whirlwind of hype and media interest died down, my own curiosity in solving crimes and catching villains rapidly deteriorated as my career faded into total obscurity; sure to amount nothing more than a weird, unbelievable and ultimately embarrassing anecdote for some insecure, ego-maniacal poet to regurgitate on his website in the vain hope of a few cheap laughs.

Where are you, Carol Smillie?

When was it, exactly, that you just vanished from our screens?

You’re not dead, are you, Carol?

I’m sure I would have seen an obituary in the broadsheets.

But I bet you never thought you’d see this day,
back when ‘Changing Rooms’ was top of the TV ratings,
and you were hosting the mid-week edition of the National Lottery.

Do you ever look back and reflect on it all, Carol?

And ponder whether or not you should have embarked on a sordid love affair with Handy Andy,
if only to sustain the level of media interest in you both for that little bit longer.

Perhaps the two of you could have become Blighty’s answer to Brad and Angelina.

Andy and Carol.

Or Handy and Smillie.

Instead, you just slipped slowly out of view from us all;
a forgotten, high-pitched relic.

Because, let’s be honest, Carol,
you’re subsequent BBC chat show, ‘Smillie’s People’ never really hit the big time.

And though you managed to squeeze out five series of ‘Dream Holiday Homes’ for Channel 5,
the last I heard, you had ended up on a reality TV show called ‘Gender Swap’,
as a contestant,
with Barry from EastEnders.

You’re biggest high since must be coming fifth on ‘Strictly Come Dancing’.

Because ever since there’s been nothing to shout about.

However, every now and then, I’ll think about you, Carol.

While I’m doing the dishes, or maybe ironing my work shirts.

And what I find most strange about this, is that I never really liked you, Carol.

Because you and the one who ended up on those Curry’s adverts used to do my fucking head in.

Jarvis Cocker is playing mainly Beatles’ songs to commemorate what would have been John Lennon’s 71st birthday, as I lie sprawled across the sofa, leafing my way through the Observer.

There are so many gems on offer:

‘Please Mr. Postman.’

‘I’m So Tired.’

‘Twist and Shout.’

Earlier today, Sir Paul McCartney got married for the third time, while me and my house-mates watched ‘The Goonies’ on TV, as well as almost two thirds of ‘Romancing The Stone.’

Not only that, but Groundhog Day is on Channel 5 in an hour.

There’s no Match Of The Day 2 due to the international break, but that’s probably a good thing, what with Arsenal’s recent form.

It’d most likely just spoil this great mood I’m in.

Jarvis introduces Lennon and the Plastic Ono Band’s ‘Cold Turkey’ as I skim over an article on how Gary Barlow became cool.

The only thing missing is a Sunday roast, but our oven doesn’t work and the new cooker won’t be delivered until Wednesday, so it’ll have to be pasta and cheese for the fourth time this week.

Still, there’s plenty to look forward to after Jarvis is done; like board games in front of the log burner, and breaking into that bottle of wine John brought round as a house-warming gift.

Because outside a storm is brewing, but in here, it’s cosy and warm.

In here, we’ve got cups of tea and the chocolate brownies my mum made.

And though we’ve all got work first thing tomorrow, nothing is going to bring us down on this perfect Sunday.

Not even the fact that we’ve so far only managed to answer three clues in this so-called ‘speedy crossword.’

The last few days of summer remain, and as the ocean gently brushes into the large rocks surrounding the pebbled shore it brings with it a peculiar mist which covers the landscape in a grainy effect, as if viewed through some sort of filter on a camera lens.

She sits beside me; the soft breeze teasing her hair into all sorts of shapes and patterns. Each individual strand on the right side of her parting dances through the air in an unpredictable fashion, swaying from left to right as if out of time with the wind’s beat, or awkwardly like the extended branches of an old and fragile tree. A solidified section on her left falls knotted together and works to conceal that side of her profile, so as if to give the impression that she is wearing an eye patch.

‘I’m not looking forward to winter.’

She pushes the top of her skull against my cheek and then glances up at me with those eyes, as I exhale a thin cloud of cigarette smoke and lean towards her so that our lips meet. She tastes of orange squash. I taste of death, she informs me.

‘Mum said she saw this lovely two bed place near the centre of town. Going cheap. Well, what counts as cheap nowadays, anyway.’

I take another drag from my cigarette and recall a quote from Rimbaud.

Idle youth, enslaved to everything; by being too sensitive I have wasted my life.

‘Said she could help us out getting a deposit sorted, if we want. Definitely worth taking a look at I reckon. It’s getting harder and harder for people in our position now.’

I was born to explore. I was born to travel the world and live the bohemian dream. There are too many places I haven’t seen, too many things I haven’t tried, and too many women I’ve not slept with yet. My greatest fear? Dying in the town where I was born.

Lost in my own thoughts and off balance, I almost topple off the rock where we’re sitting when she nudges my arm with her shoulder.

‘Hey! Day-dreamer… I’m talking to you!’ She pulls a pretend angry face which coaxes a smile from me before leaning in for another kiss. This time it is longer and born of passion.

‘What do you think?’ she asks me, as I toss my cigarette butt somewhere down below.

‘I think it might be about to rain,’ I reply, immediately aware that my response is not the one she was looking for. She looks away from me and out to sea, and even though I can’t see her face, I can tell that she is trying not to cry.

‘I’m pregnant.’

I hear the words, but pretend that I haven’t. Or hope that maybe I imagined them.
She turns to face me and her cheeks are red and sodden with tears.

I recall another quote from Rimbaud.

Morality is the weakness of the brain.

My all-time favourite footballer Dennis Berkamp is 42 today. To celebrate I’m re-posting the poem I wrote which is (sort of) about him, along with a video of one of his greatest goals; the last minute winner for Holland against Argentina in the quarter-finals of the France 98 World Cup, complete with audio from a crazy Dutch commentator. Happy Birthday to the Ice Man.

I Used To Be Dennis Bergkamp

When I look back at my childhood now, my memories seem to glow with that warm fuzzy feeling of nostalgia; as if each of them is being replayed in Super-8 footage, on a noisy old projector, in a darkened room somewhere lost in time.

I remember my first day at primary school and how terrified I was when my mum left me at the gate, but also how quickly that sense of terror faded when I immediately made friends with a boy in my class, who wore expensive trainers and had a mullet not dissimilar to Pat Sharpe’s on Funhouse.

I remember the excitement of those days in school. Learning was fun then. As was standing up in assembly and belting out hymns at the top of our lungs. Or playing kiss chase with the girls.

I remember that first kiss with a girl. Her lips tasted of salt and vinegar crisps.

I remember football in the playground. We’d all pretend we were our favourite players as we danced across the concrete in pursuit of the ball. Most of us would choose skilful, attacking, flair players like Matt Le Tissier, Andrei Kanchelskis or Dennis Bergkamp.

But I remember one boy always chose to be Julian Dicks, the West Ham United left-back and England B team international, whose nickname was of course: the Terminator.

After school, I’d go home and play football in the street with my brothers. We’d slam the ball against our neighbour Mr. Hopkins’ garage, until he would appear in the driveway, beetroot red in the face with rage and chase us down the road screaming profanities, until he ran out of puff and had to stop, hands on hips, his back hunched.

Then I’d sit in front of the TV and watch videotaped episodes of Lois & Clark: The New Adventures of Superman or select from my extensive James Bond collection.

I remember school discos. All the boys would line up on one side of the room and all the girls would line up opposite, and both sets would whisper between each other; divulging who they fancied or who they hated.

Then the DJ would play Agadoo by Black Lace.

Or: The Superman Song by Black Lace.

Or: Do The Conga by Black Lace.

And everyone would do the Conga.

I’ve started to map out our entire future together. I’ve had a bit of spare time lately, so I thought, why not?

I’ve put down a deposit on the first flat we’ll share as a couple.

I’ve pictured the cosy nights in we’ll spend together, with you sat in front of the fire doing the crossword in today’s Independent while I sit hunched over an antique desk by the window, pontificating over the last few lines of a new poem I’m writing, with Jacques Brel sound-tracking the scene via the impossibly cool and retro record player in the corner of the room.

I’ve scripted the always interesting, hilarious and topical conversations we’ll partake in every day. We’ll discuss contemporary art with knowing smirks and arched eyebrows, or debate the finest authors of the 21st century, and agree on the brilliance and importance of French New Wave cinema.

We’ll be completely clued up on the world’s current affairs and regularly donate generously to worthy causes and charities.

I’ve even acted out the night that I will propose to you; it’ll be at some top secret, romantic location out on the cliffs. We’ll watch the sun set while stuffing our faces with expensive organic-only food from a picnic hamper and sipping a vintage claret from plastic tumblers.

You’ll cry tears of joy when I get down on one knee and unveil the small black box that I’ve been keeping safe in my back pocket for weeks before.

Our wedding day will be an event that lingers long in the memories of both our guests and ourselves, fondly remembered and reminisced upon at friends’ dinner parties for years to come.

And we’ll honeymoon in Paris, and do all the clichéd things that two people in love do. We’ll stroll hand in hand by the river at night-time, eat out at fancy restaurants, ride bicycles in the sunshine down the Champs Elysees, share a kiss at the top of the Eiffel Tower and have wild, passionate sex wherever we like and whenever we feel the urge.

And we will grow old together, and have lots of children who will each grow up to happy and successful, experts in their chosen professions, whatever they might be.

And we’ll live happily ever after, you and me, until the day that we die.

I suppose all that’s left to do now, is to walk on over, introduce myself and offer to buy you a drink. And also perhaps check that you are okay with all these plans of mine.