drinking Rioja and Hendrick's gin by the fire, dancing to Goran Bregovi? on Spotify, eating your perfect roasties, crumbed with lemon and thyme (crisp as autumn outside, fluffy as pillows inside). Talking of pillows, I'd like to spend more time in your bed, your hips clamped between my thighs, or drifting into sleep, face to face, foreheads touching, arms and legs entwined. Lower Market Street, 1973 Bombed on Tuinal and Newcastle Brown, Mad Eddie steams into our room, skids to a halt at our bed and throws back the sheet, squealing, 'Ah, look at the babes in the wood'. Naked as eels, me and Richard cling to each other. I drop acid, I'm on the Pill.  I want to be as cool as hennaed Sadie, who's crashing on our floor, who pops Mogadon for breakfast and bares her boyish tits without thinking, who'll steal my green platform boots when she leaves. Grabbing his balls, Eddie flickers his tongue across his teeth, looking at me like he knows about the boys I've let feel me up in alleys, that I lost my virginity to a policeman's son in Stanmer Park.  Richard tells me I'm all woman, I try on the tag but here come breasts, hair, blood, here comes the creature my father couldn't have in the house, the one who was only loveable when she was a baby, a disc of pink vinyl, stamped with her master's voice. Chase the lady After I sent you away I ate the Christmas