You were a taster for a product which they never made, eventually, after so many samples were handed out in shopping centres, town centres, site specific stores and doors. Some were even posted.

So I became accustomed to something which wasn’t there. Like finding out the person you’ve spoken to six nights in a row, on an internet site which lets you upload any picture you like, is in fact sixteen and the opposite sex entirely from what they led you to believe. Although, sex, perhaps, shouldn’t be such a stipulated thing and, I wonder, if it wasn’t for my upbringing, would I infact be another person entirely?

And this thing – you – I sucked on like faith, pulped like a book I might write and one you definitely did, is a memory flitting from damp bathroom fittings to air to the blocked drain outside my back door, clogged with something grey and thicker than pus, heavier than gravy that’s set.

You were a self-sent, the first break up I incised with my own teeth which melt like kitchen sealant, ready for a new layer, except there’s not one coming, because some things are finite – Brad Pitt’s career, my underwear.

And if only it wasn’t for greed, and I kept free street gifts. But Communion, I’ve got to take straight away and suckle as it melts over my tongue which didn’t see savourable attention until 27. And it’s an instant healing, connection, to a thickly-studied god, who’s talked more than many men to me, despite the apparent charm of me. And he’s said, “I will,” and “Keep on,” and “I’m fucking sorry.” And depending on the level of the room’s hysteria, I reply, “I know. I know god and thanks.”

What Else? What New? What Now?

Every competition you entered as a kid you got rejected from, couldn’t win stuffed toys from cereal packets or chocolate bars in tombolas. And the essay you write doesn’t sound much, wouldn’t hold up to writers, men accustomed to hoop jumping, women have degrees now.

The lottery’s seemed such a sure thing, and pocket money’s funded weekly trips, and mathematics helped with the choice of numbers, in that you learnt which your favourites were in Mr. Harrison’s, Mr Tucker’s lessons. It’s the epitome of hope now, chance materialising in seconds.

Jack asks if you’re going and you ask what you’d stay for and you show him the ticket and he says, “How Willy Wonka, Charlie chocolate of you,” when he hoped this was Esio Trot.

To Build A Home

You’ll think one day you can build your own house or home or at least own one but you don’t understand economics how you’d need to and the bank aren’t offering money and your income’s not steady and won’t be and it’s hard comprehending stories from people who built houses in their twenties, when buying shorts from Topshop now is a pretty thick consideration. Your wage will likely stay the same, and when you’re forty you’ll wonder what it’s like to walk into any store and spend cash without converting it in your head first, dividing it up into housekeeping, rent, electricity, water, gas, petrol or bus tickets, probably bus tickets if you’re honest and you can live out the next ten years knowing that some things don’t change, are exactly the same, are degenerating slowly but not quickly enough to cause alarm. No sudden drop in interest like with this season’s House, this year’s The Office. There will be ticking, constants. You’ll clock the back of a person’s head, think, “In 2006, I saw him and he had more hair,” and you’ll wonder what happened to Jack, whether he had an interesting fate, a plotted one, if he could keep alive in any climate, or if, inevitably, he died. You learnt of survival from Liam Neeson.