Ah, but Maureen, our Helicopters of Desire have grown so purple now. The days of their yellowness are little more than legends now. Tales told around fires as the night's blankets cover all of our darkest fears.
One day, one day, my love, I, too, will wear the underpants of a warrior and stride fearlessly across the wide-open spaces of supermarket car parks as I hunt for the rare Balsamic Vinegar of the Uncle of the Gods.
I too have tasted those sweet marsupials of the night.
I too have stood naked outside the chip shop at closing time, asking each and every customer if they too can smell penguins. They are there… somewhere… I know. I have heard them whispering together in the shadows, making unflattering remarks about our hairstyles.
I have wandered these mean streets until I stopped. Then I had some tea. Then I went out again and wandered these mean streets a bit more. That is until it got a bit nippy. So now, anyway, I know the secrets that lie deep inside the disposable nappies.
Here we sit around our photograph of a roaring fire, waiting, waiting for the Dawn, and wondering where she has got to now, and will the chips be cold by the time she returns.
Still, still, we are haunted by that eternal question that has plagued humankind right from the beginning of time and consciousness: will she have remembered the salt and vinegar?