I saw you walking home with your Marks & Spencer's bag, I thought that punks went to Iceland. And can't you remember? We're not allowed nice things, ripped jeans and bottles of cider. I swore at seventeen that I would never sell out and mate, I mean it. Obviously, unless somebody offered me the opportunity, and then I'd take it. I'm not an idiot.

It's like Tracey Emin's Bed in my head. Kind of creative, but mainly just a mess.

I never see you out without that jacket on, you must suffer in summer. We spend a lifetime painting pictures of ourselves for each other. I wonder how long all this could last. Together we're stronger than the sum of our profile photographs.