In the pub, we talked of Chekhov and dildos –
she could accommodate either, she declared –
for ever since those bastard nuns
caned her for reading Jackie
she’d been able to come on a sixpence.
When it grew light I opened her curtains
to witness a cruciform seagull
wheeling in the Withington sky,
my mouth being quite overwhelmed
with quim juice and apricots.
