Sunday, 17 January 2010


The first time he met Chelsea was in somewhat inauspicious circumstances.

He had been walking through Regent’s Park and had nearly knocked her to the floor.

He had nearly knocked her to the floor because he hadn’t seen her. And he hadn’t seen her because she was bent over scooping up dogshit.

He was all kinds of stunned by unexpected forceful contact with a woman who was coldly, piercingly beautiful. But who was also, inescapably, holding the warm faeces of a tiny black plug in an inside out plastic Waitrose carrier bag.

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