The purple reindeers of your sad Wednesday afternoon are once more creeping slowly across the Axeminster of your fully-furnished dreams. Poised on the edge of your carpet, they wait for the merest indication that you will place the tin of baked beans next to the games console for one finale time, before heading off to examine the grouting between your bathroom tiles.
We have sat together comparing our wallpaper swatches and moistened the tips of each other’s right index fingers with our dreams of naked cavorting on the underlay of our most erotic dreams that don’t – for once – entail the explicit and indecent use of cucumber sandwiches to achieve mutual satiation.
But still we dance like bewildered okapis through the High street shopping centres of our long lost Thursday afternoons of the soul and think – once again – on the times when we dunked each other’s genitalia in the sherry trifle off our undying love.
Even now I know – dear heart – that you cannot stand naked in the same room as a jar of lemon marmalade without blushing. Still, what is done is done and what has been more than adequately marmaladed remains more than adequately marmaladed, except – of course – during the winter when an additional coat of creosote may be contemplated.