Clutch things.

In a shop in York some winters ago, a saleslady made an elaborate pitch for a clutch. "The stuff won't fall out," she said, "even after you've had a drink." There was no boyfriend chair in the shop. You said you would wait in the street.

I had a complicated dream in which you got married. You ran down the street with your bride. Her face kept changing. I was taking photos from the balcony. Later I tried to explain that it was all physics: you either knew the name of the bride, or the velocity at which she was moving, but not both.

"Happy new year," you called to me yesterday. You surprised me; I dropped everything. "Hold on to things," you called. Which was different from, "Don't drop things," which you've said before.