I wonder whether you mind this. Whether you mind me sharing your curls with the world. But THERE IS NO WORLD without your curls darling, there is no fucking world to sleep in or dream of. I forgot to say this: I forgot to say: Voila, ladies and gentlemen, my little parcel, my tiny tiny parcel, which hops and parades, looking for you, longing for you, burning for you. Shall I open it, shall I open it, ladies and gentlemen. NO, no, better at home.

This is this now, the number with the flames, as you wanted it to. I will be careful not to burn your golden curls though, not to look at my phone all the time, till I hear from you. I will try to stay still, turn the flame love on and hope for the best. Don't you worry, I have grown familiar to what this is. To the way I should not get attached to you. To you holding me and me pretending it never happened. But please, don't take those curls away.

You know the aubergine soup is too soupy, too watery, and of course you know why this is. Because, of course, if your curls catch fire, I will call the police, the emergency hospital, the NHS direct, I will call them to come and tear your burnt curls and give them to me, as a memento, a gift for me, for when you are gone.

But of course, I do not wish for all this to happen. I wish for your curls to remain intact. So, I will just train hard and perform my number when I know exactly what is going on, when I know that you may stay.