I’d walk past your old man’s rust-ridden Aston Martin every day and wonder if it had an ejector seat.
I’d pass your place on the way to the bus stop and pray you’d choose just that moment to emerge from your weird, pebble-dashed house, greet me with the smile that launched a thousand hard-ons, take me in hand and whisk me away like I was a Bond who couldn’t drive and you were a Bond girl who’d nicked your dad’s car keys. Continue reading »