Breakfast At Tiffany's

She wasn’t really that wonderful,

or even especially nice,

but she looked very good in her Vogue power stance

in a tense cloud of backlit dry ice.

And we were all really right up for it

and she said she would be too,

and everyone there was a little bit bored

and we needed the next thing to do.

So we left and we went back to her place

with the hard beats still pounding our ears

and we talked about free drugs and saving the world

and Love Island and Britney Spears.

The city was ours for the taking

and the air of the night was still warm

as the pavements got broader and leafier

and suburbia came up with the dawn.

And as Roads became Streets became Crescents

just as all conversation ran dead,

there we were in the porch with the four-foot wide door

and the stained glass and bay trees - and then she said,

“Take off your shoes when you get inside,

and ask me if you want to smoke.

I’m allowed to have friends round for dinner,

but don’t vomit or break things and no doing coke.”

It was pristine and cream and expensive

and a bit like the Palace but cleaner

as we sat in suspense on the sofas for ages

and  didn’t talk over a whisper.

She had aged forty years in an instant.

Three hours of a glass-eyed epiphany.

So I scored a sly note on the leather pouffe -

“It was here I had breakfast with Tiffany.”