When it happens,

It won’t be on windy moors

Or sun-drenched beaches;

It’ll be at Tesco’s,

Or on the number 65.


I won’t be sipping cocktails

In a little black number,

I’ll be lugging shopping

In jeans and T-shirt;

Bedraggled by rain.


Our eyes won’t meet

Across a crowded room,

And you won’t buy me flowers

On impulse;

We’ll be shoved together

In toe-crush queues,

And I’ll stiletto heel you.


When it happens

It won’t be like the movies,

But we might

Make  a sitcom on ITV.

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