Moving House

Discovered in an old box of papers: a genuine police report on an assault on a traffic warden, a very charming love letter from a boy whose name I've forgotten, a list of numbers entitled 'definitely DON'T call', and some descriptions of the smell of sadness.

And a poem scribbled on the back of a napkin:

'Here's to the sky drinking beaches,

Here's to the sea drinking sky,

Here's to going to Norfolk,

Here's to he and I.'

So long Summer House. It's been a blast.