I miss sunshiney Pimms picnics on the castle tourist pit of a lawn, up by the sket hole that is BZR in Nottingham city centre.
I miss sharing a smile Nana Dawg as we smirked smugly at poor Wally, long before he lost himself in angular pretention. I remember the olives, the feta, the grease caught sneakily beneath the finger nails and the grimey sight of mediterranean herbs caught between your perfect teeth.
I miss the days of the haze. The warm pints of cider, sipped from crooked lips smeared with last night's lipstick and alcohol. I miss the days of the haze. The harsh discussions of literature, musicality, lyricism and film. European cinema was your forte baby, but I was, at the time, too vain to care, preferring instead the gossip surrounding my beloved Brooklyn boys, the bands and the bastards, the kisses and broken promises. I prefered the frosting to the sponge of your perfect non-birthday cake. You smothered your cheek bones with the moist sponge, whipped up for you in my frenzy of ever-ageing love and respect.
You're so worth my while. And baby girl, you always fucking will be.
