Ordinarily, faced with writing a poem about rebellion, I’d end up with something about stacking my dishwasher in a disorderly way, or refusing to use the tongs provided. But from Monday, I shall be a Professional Writer and it’s about time I did some growing up and tackled more serious matters. Kaylee would be proud of me.

Friday June 8th

We went to the cinema; it was some awful romcom, one of those dull ‘will they, won’t they?’ affairs. But the film itself was a mere sideshow, a divertissement from the real matter at hand (Liz). In a sudden rash of promiscuity, we shared popcorn; I gallantly compromised on the salted variety, despite being a sure and steadfast lover of the sweetened version. I pointed out this sacrifice to Liz a number of times but she didn’t seem that impressed. On several occasions, our fingertips touched in the tub; the dark hid our blushes (at least I think it did, it was dark in there and hard to tell).

Afterwards, in the pub, we proceeded to discuss Toby Salt at length, with specific focus on his crocs.

‘If there’s one thing worse than wearing crocs,’ said Liz, ‘it’s wearing crocs with socks.’

‘That’s got the makings of a poem,’ I said. ‘Perhaps you could perform it for him at next month’s Poetry Club.’

She laughed and my heart skipped several beats.

‘Good idea. We could call it “The Crocs of the Matter”. By the way,’ she added, ‘I’ve changed my mind about my favourite Smiths song.’

‘Oh yes?’

‘It’s “Last Night I Dreamt That Somebody Loved Me”.’

It was a fine choice. At the bus stop, Liz leant in towards me as if to whisper something but she must have got confused because, before I had a chance to think, she’d kissed me on the lips. Behind us, her bus pulled up. Liz asked if I was coming her way and would I care to hop on.

After what had happened last time, I’d meant to just say yes, but instead I listened to myself explaining that it wasn’t really the right direction and how it would probably add another twenty or twenty-five minutes to my journey time. I’d be far better off waiting for the number 5 as it stops just at the top of my road, although there’s a temporary bus stop in place, which means the walk is a couple of minutes longer than usual at the moment, and, sure, it’s an inconvenience but the roadworks should only be in place for another two weeks, and it’s nothing that cannot be coped with, given a little forethought and planning . . .

I’d missed Liz climbing noisily onto the bus as I was saying this, but, as it pulled away, I noticed her on the top deck, staring grimly out into the distance.