My phone reminds me of the time
I sellotaped my foot to my head
in the downstairs loo at a house party,

the Robert Plant outfit at uni
consisting of a charity shop blouse
and my friend Sarah’s skinny jeans.

It remembers my friends remembering me
falling over on Bournemouth dance floors,
eating chips with sugar instead of salt,
that time my tongue got my face punched.

Today I high-fived the air
when my mother-in-law texted me
to say the council have finally confirmed

the local cardboard recycling will
return to a fortnightly collection.

Carl Burkitt 2026