Strange to think you have my number when several months ago we played the Flicky Eye Game from under our fringes. Over the fringes of other, less interesting, heads. I think mutual suspicion gave way when my tongue slipped and I told you, by total accident, that I can smell your hair from three daffodil-yellow corners and two corridors away.

If you want to believe I kissed a butch man-girl called Ursula in the pulsating strobe-infested dark, go ahead.

I am very sorry I didn’t make it to meet your sheep and the live-in army ex sleeping on your sofa. Some other time. But only if you refrain from telling yourself to shut up mid-conversation.