Hair meticulously shampooed, the rest of me just sponge-bathed over the week, nails cut, face close-shaven for 'the kiss', a daub of Canoë behind each ear, tux on, ticket given at the door,
Her entrance then, in glittered gown, her saucy, lit, electric glance,
I love you Ann-Margret Olsson!
Hurling my room key onto the stage, the applause and brass overture oversounding my cry just after shouting, the crowd-scuffle lost in the quick press of the ushers, the big bouncers.
All this echoing through the mockery at Precinct 8 and their holding cell, echoing through therapy.