Driving past the turnoff to your cul-de-sac, I can still feel the box of Roses in my sweaty, eight-year-old hands. The chocolates cost me about one million pounds. How many cars must I have washed? I sat in my room for 50 years after sprinting from your front door thinking of you nibbling a Golden Barrel like a squirrel, waiting for Sunday to end. It’s Monday, and I hear you say my name from behind a tree in the playground telling your friends you Prefer Quality Street. You. Said. My. Name.

© Carl Burkitt 2022

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