On the English Riviera with the penguins and the waders. In a chip shop on the front with the tacky seaside traders. In a flooded cottage kitchen by the fire that you built. In a B & B in Peebles, underneath a hired kilt. In Barnardo's, Cancer Research, in Shelton and Oxfam. In a quiet pub in Skipton, on a rusty Blackpool tram. The Pleasure Beach and Coral Island, at the end of the North Pier. On the moors with the wild ponies and the sheep shit and the deer. In a corner of the Sub Club. On the Art School's old dance floor. In the hall and in the bath, just outside the downstairs door. On a hillside in the Trossachs, on the busy NY streets, in a hotel by a park, it's written in the sheets. In the sand at Ilfracombe, halfway up the A82, the tallest cinema in Europe, standing sighing in the queue. The all-night garages of Glasgow, the freezing streets of Aberdeen, in every corner, every room and every bed we've ever been. That's where we've left our love.
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