The Queen is dead. The £ is low. Expensive electricity hangs a heavy cloud over the city. The Christmas lights are cancelled. A Man To Pet sits by candlelight, her Ruby heeled feet warmed by a Matalan throw. A quilled pen frantically scribbles...
Sketching out a show stopping Greek Xmas Panto,
...of immense hilarious proportions!
Behind a Pale Blue Door, on a night in the not so far Eastern distance. The magnificent depression has laid the surrounding city silent. If you follow the stars, the whiff of male sweat will drive you forth. The promise of love drives you on. With furtive looks you knock 96 times, a heavily lacquered hand reaches out. Light love and laughter spill out into the night air, before the city falls back into its slumber, only turning slightly in its cold and guilty bed.