80’s horror films and cups of tea that taste like that blonde girl I used to know at school, the one who had flaky skin on her fingers. The biscuits I eat taste like her as well. Those crumbly ones with the strawberry filling. At the school prom when we were both 10, she danced with me for the final song, and although I can’t quite recall what song it was, there’s a chance it was it must be love by Madness. Those days of chocolate toothpaste cake and summer lunchtimes spent jogging around the playing field pretending such a feat was somehow meaningful. Those days before the outside world came and messed up perfect fantasy. If I hold my breath, I’m back in my old childhood house sat before the electric fire watching TV at four in the morning. Monty dog and Polo the cat would often sit with me at such times, and the three of us would be together just chilling in a bubble of time and space that still exists in a state of harmony not even death can infiltrate. There was a cafe, right? That one in the centre of town my nan and mum used to take me on Saturday mornings? I’d always have a glass of lemonade and a slice of caramel cake while they chatted about how their weeks had been. When they paid up, the serving waitress would give me a lollipop for the road. The building is still there, but it’s now a hairdresser, of which I don’t frequent. As a rule of thumb, I only allow two people to touch my hair, either my mum, or that of a lover. You see, I’m not one of those touchy-feely types. If you want to cop a feel, go elsewhere.