‘Would you know my name if I saw you in heaven.”We took a trip to the hill station, our final destination. We took the blue toy train to the Church of Redemption where you told me to hold my hands down for grace. Where I looked across the altar to the book of hymns and cried making faces. Where you sang a little and searched the page, and then we left that time and stage. But this is neither the place nor the time that I was here in my happiness and in pain.

Glorious autumn sun and a walk into an old bookshop with a clock from antiquity and no one to disturb the peace of mind. This vacation is only for fun.

We walk up to the restaurant with a cat and a guitar, and a young beautiful boy who was a star. Where is that all gone? This is not the place or the time.

When I said that you could leave, I was tired of being a coward unable to defend you. We asked for sandwiches and tea, and you cried on my sleeve. This is not the place or the time when I was here in my happiness and in pain.

Your patience knighted with luxury a view of the bazaar and the long hands of money.

Now I, relieved with some extra cash, hold your hand to the snow-white shop to buy something snug to protect you from the lingering cold.

Fascinating post office and Indian Coffee House but where are the fairy lights that they lit up that night? Where are the old-world junkies we met inside. Old poster art is still up on the peeling wall but that this is not the place or time. I can’t see them at all.

We get across to the old cinema down the rickety stairs and wooden chairs, where we watched movies in our childhood.

Bakers from 1876, the Chinese shoe shops from 50s, the Gaiety theatre from even earlier, where Shakespeare shagged Moliere. I laughed but she wouldn’t. Fairies don’t laugh at these jokes.

The old wooden market where I was tripping every moment like morons always do. I was thanking our Lord in heaven for this time and place while I was tapping my shoe. All the while I was walking a little behind, avoiding meeting eyes with you. She sees me and says what have I done to deserve you. Fairies, I am told, are told about such lines because people say them.

We walk back to the cold cottage to the warmest evening of the autumn — past a thousand monkeys contemplating your case, in the street light, like we did; there isn’t that excitement to rush back for no crackers to burst, no goddesses to meet, no pain of love, no excitement of a drink. This is not the place or the time but gratitude.

Then to the ridge, where a year from now, we were one with magic hour. Balloons set against the sunset and a view of the valley.

Then the twilight with scanty money and my pain that was a bridge. We were so close together hopping with excitement in the wind, and we chanced to be back riding on luck and nothing has changed as a matter of fact. The charm has eroded but I am a sucker of nostalgia.

The innocence of it all, I cannot describe but there were gems in your eyes that second night, and your shoulder was strong. Have you brought the same heart along?

Snuggling together in that cold bus ride. Through the towns and twinkling lights, turn over another page, to those you did not see, the macabre and the emptiness that excite me. From the ridge to the dinner that we last year could not afford, in that little cottage restaurant that needs a family. We are excited like tiny boys and girls and in my soup I begin to weep, yes the charm of last year has gone, but now let me be.

Love is to play like a child, love is irresistible, it makes you stupid. Love is travel or to take the arrow like the cupid. Love is joy like the birds who are confused when you get angry with your shoes.

Please forgive me. I have not cared deep enough, never been smart enough to show you life. Too poor to lift off the weight, too stupid to show you luxury that is great, too much an idiot to take away your pain. I wanted to spend the evenings walking around the park and cook for you and serve you in the dark.