My heads full of you today, darlin'. Went for a walk along Lagan Meadows where you used to wander, sketching tree-stumps and falling over in bogs. Then I submitted stuff to the Vacuum, the way you used to. I read the pieces that you had submitted and I became both angry and proud and something else which I can't quite put my finger on. Angry because they're so good, as good as anyone; better than anyone. How did nobody notice? It doesn't make any sense. Your voice sings off the page. The pieces are whip-smart, funny, passionate and compassionate, full of one-liners and clever bits that take a couple of goes to get and are actually worth getting. You were really good at this. Why the fuck did nobody ever pay you for it? The report on Miss Belfast I can almost touch; it was written just a couple of months before I met you and it's the same funny, clever, beautiful girl that I found squatting on children's furniture in a house-party in Basingstoke. You were brilliant. You're my Miss Belfast. As well as being the fastest girl in Gulladuff, no contest.
Watched Xander and Anya almost get married on "Buffy the Vampire Slayer" but had to turn off when an excited Anya exclaimed "I get to spend the rest of my life with my best friend,". It doesn't always work out like that. *
Watching that silly bitch with the speech impediment talking about Georgian living rooms. I quite like her. You would have hated her. Good.
*Needn't have worried - Xander bolts from the altar and queers the whole pitch. Good old "Buffy"!