My Mum’s Stolen Car

I couldn’t give a shit who you are to each other. I like lines like, “You had me at hello,” and, “Of course I love you, dummy,” but this is not a situation for any or all best lines you might come up with in life. Save them. If you’ve seen Titanic you’ll know dialogue’s wasted breath, sometimes. Convenient revelations like, “I loved you all along, Erin,” don’t stack up when you’ve spent seasons toying with ideas of not being, or being together.

“You’ve been sharpening nails on me like I’m a scratching post and I’m the idea of us and your nails are thrashing out if we’d be a perfect couple like your parents who hate each other and you. Your logic is screwed,” is what you should say. Instead you run down the street, get strangers to wind down windows so you proclaim what we knew you felt but struggled to care that you did.

Meanwhile, Catherine Tate’s in the office warming your seat, killing time until the next job hits, the one that finally breaks her in to the new life, and this stint is just a joyride, but don’t comment – you’re a part of your own catastrophe.

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