First time: North Downs; a lovely summer’s day.
I’d never wanted so much to impress
– had trawled The King’s Road, spent a whole month’s pay
on platforms and a psychedelic dress.
He’d brought champagne and food - Alas, no rug
to sit (or maybe lie down! ) on. Instead
of handing me a flute, I got a mug
to drink the bubbly from. Hope turned to dread…
The booze was warm, the sandwiches were dry
(and cheese spread failed to thrill me very much,
along with massive chunks of stale pork pie),
but then things hotted up – he tried to touch
me in a place that boys don’t head for first
(not nice ones) and he hadn’t kissed me yet!
His planned ‘romantic picnic’ was the worst
I’d ever had; I wished we’d never met.
We left; there were some stiles to cross; I tripped
and landed in a steaming cow-pat. Great.
My shoes were plastered and my dress got ripped.
Needless to say, that was our only date.
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