We often mistake enthusiasm for passion.
In 1963 I went to a party in Chelsea with a good friend who threw shapes in a beat combo when he wasn't throwing off the shapes of his nightmares or shaping up a hangover.
I thought I was a beat poet at the time so could write shit shaped poetry like that
I had bought a new pair of sneakers that day and my bullet wounds were playing up; yeah I hung with Michael X or was it Malcolm?
I met a girl; an artist, her name was quickly forgotten but I remembered it that night... I was enthusiastic.
She could not take her eyes off my sneakers and I witnessed an idea growing.
I wonder what became of her?
I found the photograph in an old copy of IT.
There was a photograph of a naked girl in that 1960's magazine who was the spitting image of nurse Caz. I confronted her with the image and she soon confessed that it was her mother.
I now know why nurse Caz has a passion for starched white cotton and sensible shoes.
Nurse Caz being hit on by a lipstick lesbian.