The sea spray licks and dances around our dangling legs whilst an icy wind drives over the waves like the seagulls skimming for food.  I like this feeling of hot and cold, of being wrapped up to the point of sweating on my top half whilst the lower half shivers.  Her legs are blue and goosebumped, and when I pass my hands over them it is like the most ecstatic poem in Braille.

That evening we drank wine and threw stones from the pier.  Giggling, we ran to the local churchyard, put a twenty note into the Parish Collection Box and started to molest each other in the grounds, between two enormous Victorian angels, who looked down disapprovingly at this carnal act.  Even more disapproving was the vicar, walking his dog nearby.  Naked from the waist down we sprinted away; she charging through a bed of stinging nettles and myself vaulting over a barbed wire fence.

Can you believe the stupid old bastard actually put a notice up in the local newspaper?  Grim faced, holding up my jeans (still covered in grass clippings), earnestly asking if anyone recognised them.  She cut the article out, bought a picture frame and mounted it above our bed.

In his closing quotes he begged for the spirit of the Lord to carry us on the righteous path of honesty and grace.  She shrugged.  Seems pointless… because the gates of heaven are always locked to sinners like us, and pushed a cigarette into his forehead.