‘My tutor told me that we should write poetry drunk. And I’m really behind on work. So I guess I’ll have to drink tonight.’ It was funny and everyone laughed because, although I was using it as an excuse, it was true. So we drank gritty vodka and we went to the dark ends of town and I ended up in his bed again. And then in the dim, flavourless morning when the sun hadn’t even woken he asked whether I regretted going home with him and not writing poetry. And I told him: ‘but we did, didn’t we?’.