He combed the covent garden cafes, pockets full of pens and postcards looking for girls whose poems featured the colour of their hearts, their favourite moment of sky. He tead them, bought cakes,
It was as if we caught her - seventeen with a tub of cookies and cream Haagen Daaz, on her mother's hessian sofa cradling Hugo the cat and the remote control. In the foyer amidst the strobe I watched her,
Dear Peter, I use an A4 year diary as my notebook. As I write this I am crossing through Tuesday 14th February and eating an advocado. I don't care about my hips. By Wednesday you will note you recieved no card.
Loving London It didn't matter to him that her skin, smattered like a tube map, woke up ugly and raw, that he could not remember the names of any of the routes or the full stops of her tongue and temper.