(I couldn't resist; especially that the track has recently lead to a certain obvious and extremely thrilling observation.)
I fell asleep in the middle of the touching Nick Helm Christmas Spectacular*, quite probably during the poem about the romantically distressed Snowman, and dreamt of my ex-wife. We were together in a room, seemingly comfortable with each other. Then I started smashing chairs against the walls, something that I always hated, despite the appearances, to do in our real-life relationship.
Suddenly I felt what and why.
(The blame’s split, but badlytilting my way,; the original sin’s exclusively mine, though - no woman in sight to share it with, only Satan himself).
PS Sir Howard - in case you haven't moused the added link - was educated in Brighton, a fact that may stand behind the Pavilion and Pier; in the fragment above, that is.
