A while ago, I ended up using the term ‘drug fucked narcissistic megabitch gymbunny’ in a conversation about gay stereotypes and how I obviously fit them all so perfectly. Those words got jotted down in my “words” file where I keep interesting words or phrases which trigger a desire to write.

Here’s what poured out of my fingers when I let them ruminate on the above phrase for a few minutes…

It was early morning. Scrabbling madly within his pocket, his shaking fingers finally grasped the errant key. Slowly, painstakingly, the key was inserted and turned. The front door swung open, creaking as though in protest at the late hour of its use. He raised his aching red eyes to the mirror opposite the front door. 'Why oh why did I put that there' he lamented as he gazed distainfully at the visage which greeted him. 'Drug-fucked narcissistic megabitch gymbunny' he thought, 'Yep, about right'.

(What it slipped my mind I can’t be sure, but it made it fuzzy)

I was pondering this morning about names. It struck me that even eleven years on from when I left that particular set, I can list my entire class’s surnames from when I was in years 7 to 11. I can probably tell you the first names of most of them, but I can’t be sure on a couple.

Yet I cannot, for the life of me, tell you the surname of my first crush, nor my second crush, nor indeed the surnames of most of my fencing or clubbing friends from before I went to university. I can barely remember the surnames of those I was friends with at university, indeed only those I’m still in contact with do I really know properly.

So, if you’re Sam, Liz, Sarah, Joe, Russell, Ian, Dave, Steve, Jeff or Andy, and you remember who I am, perhaps you should remind me of your names; it’s bugging me now.