Treacle Heart, the quintessential londoner echoes every writer’s desperation up on Melancholy Hill

Treacle Heart

Writers, whether deliberately or unconsciously, seek each other out in crowded pubs on cold Wednesday nights. I thought you were alright-looking but probably just another creep. While I wrote line after line, frenzied, only stopping to down a jar or take a little bump off a key, I could feel your eyes on me.

(I am partial to entertaining creeps because I like their pathetic little faces
and their eyes that say, “I can’t believe she’s talking to me.”
They are, however, too easy to manipulate and usually
end up boring me: for someone who does not believe
in boredom, this is an inconvenience to say the least)

I asked you if you could keep an eye on my table while I went out for a smoke
and said, “Make sure my drink doesn’t get cleared,” and you said, “or spiked…”
and that was it.

You were a writer for…

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