Is it the fact that badgers and prickly fleabags kept me awake all night with their arguments over gastropods and territorial rights. 'Quoting Carlyle will get you nowhere!' I want to shout from the bedroom window. But there's another stalemated picture in my eye. The first non-digital meeting with the publisher has unraveled me. My heart bursts at the thought of the creases in her neck, the sweetness of the turn-ups on her trousers and the absence of metal parts. My cactus clock is ticking away. She'll realise about now that she doesn't have the full lyric. Saved by the monkey. What a driver! And cute to boot. The question is: can romance blossom while missing words and an attractive monkey stand between us. Better to stick a password on the door and paint bricks on the windows.
I'm balancing a hod full of terracotta acrylic and on my penultimate row of bricks, parrying insults from the local muffins, when it comes to me:
Jacked myself a car and danced around with my big mouth
Talked about the north star, turned around and headed south
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