Tristan sends me a text message, I am the victim of textual harassment. He thinks he is clever.
He sent me a poem. I am tempted to send him a blade from a grass cutter (poetic in joke)
My heart soars, a skylark.
Under sumptuous silks from Dior
Lie grubby pants from Primark.
I knew at once you'd be trouble, bubble of bliss be it may
Bubbles burst...
I'm too depressed to write any more and cannot be bothered to trawl any more wheelie bins of desire.
'A wheelie bin named desire' Now there's a thing. I remember telling Tennessee a long time ago that it would be a good name for a play. He just kept looking at my biceps and sippin his julep.
'You could be a contender'. He told me.
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