Monday, April 5. It was polka dots and you.
And, as the summer came alive. I slowly faded from your view.
Even though we were alone. It was never you and me.
With the TV always on. Harry Cross made three.
You know I don’t. You know I don’t.
You know I don’t. You do.
You know that I know that we know.
Of course I never got in touch. I should’ve sent that little girl.
As ’88 bit the dust. There was no more frilly world.
You know I don’t. You know I don’t. You know I don’t. You do.
I know that you know that we know.
Should I be thinking about this now? They say you can’t go back.
Thumbing through memories. Miles from where you’re at.
Now here’s a little blue book. Dot, dot, dot. Containing you and me. Dot, dot, dot.
Shrink wrapped and safe. Dot, dot, dot. From 1983.
Recorded by Mick Wilson at Far end Studios and by me at home.
Mick Wilson questioned the lack of bottom end, was ambivalent about the timing and played drums and bass. Nancy and Ted provided the screenplay. I read my 1982 diary, sang, played acoustic and electric guitars, organ, the mellotron sounds, Glockenspiel, bodhran, tambourine, shaker, #120 grit medium grade sandpaper and didn’t eat or sleep for 48 hours straight.