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.