Louise writes a poem in which

a friend called Alice finds

her ideal blend of friend and lover

and goes off to live in Paris.

 

I have looked through every page

of my photo album.

I have looked in my bed and under it

and found only hair and fluff balls

and a broken record.

 

Did I find love somewhere

and toss it away,

never recognising it as true?

Fading Kodak lovers,

was it you or you or you?

 

"Of course," says Louise.

"Alice is not actually called Alice.

She really lives in Peckham.

It didn't last in Paris".