Reading Peter Robinson’s book on the train to Reading, I found myself scribbling the following paltry attempts at aphorisms of my own:
No I’m not in the mood, I might snap, woken from a light sleep. And I was having such a nice dream about having sex with you too!
A memory of one small thing, at least, that seemed to give her pleasure: ‘So X is your girlfriend?’, an Irish writer once asked, to which I countered, ‘No, I’m her boyfriend.’
I need to see you again, one last time. But then again perhaps I’d rather not, since if I was being truthful I wouldn’t need to see you again after that, which would be a shame, or I’d decide I needed to see you another last time, which would be just embarrassing. If only we’d stayed together, I tell myself, then I wouldn’t need to see you at all!
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