Amnesty International just gave me some

Love Hearts™ so now I’m pissed. The only

sweet with an opinion, you think they’d fill

their brand deal packs with ‘Free Palestine’

‘Go bombless’ or ‘Justice for Ukraine’, but no

it’s just more ‘Baby Boy’ and ‘Marry Me?’

To make matters worse, everyone in London

is acting disgracefully attractive. Lush

couples full of lips and weekends swim through

tube connections, ready to make babies on purpose,

preferably by Wednesday. And to top it off, today I learned

I’ve been using jealousy wrong. I’m not jealous.

I’m a goldfish fried in the Gobi. I have nothing left

to take. I’m envious; the green of prize-winning lawns

with impractical stripes. The green of a bitter

banana. A lime abob in the kelp. Because

there’s taxis full of roses and there’s jeans

all plump with love and the young men

all have hairdos and their watches gleam with time

set in crisp diamonds. Accordions on standby.

Boomboxes on porches. Chocolate overflowing. I’m sorry

but I’m up to here with it. Nothing can remedy me, not even

the old couple over the table on the South Western

rail replacement coach. They start to bicker. They are so in love

they bicker about it. About sandwiches. About what to watch

on Netflix. About whose turn it is to do The Guardian Quick Crossword.

He turns to his wife — who is dressed as a cerulean

fighting fish — and they look at each other

in an it-was-your-turn-to-put-out-the-bins kind of way

when he fishes around in his bag to hand her

a Love Heart™. The one he chose on purpose. ‘I’m yours,’

he says, ‘I’m yours.’