Sitting in the dark in 1981 in Honeypot Lane, with a pint of banana Nesquik and too early, too deep a love for company. Mystical companion ever since - il miglior canto.
Moves languidly along a flat line, left to right, like no other song.
Lenny's impressions - rose in teeth...brother...gypsy. My impressions: cold New York, snow fluttering by Greenwich Village road-signs in early 1999, before the surreal back-room bar with the chaise longue and the open fire up the archetypal fire escape.
Towering above all this, "thaaaaaaaaanks..." (In at least that one word, companion of Roy's "sweeeeeetly", Jenny trumps Lenny, or at least honours him in a voice he would have liked to have used but never had - now that I know all about, don't I?)
Whom do I thank, though? And was I glad really that someone might take the trouble from her eyes (and I'm not sure they ever did, anyway, though what do I know?), or have I always wanted to come riding in one day on a white charger, finally having tried, the only one capable? Who knows? Who cares? Not me guv, not always...not sure.