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Red headed-woman carrying a grey rucksack. I only saw you from behind and you didn’t see me at all, but suddenly my life feels empty without you.
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Ol’ Blue Eyes on the Central Line. You got on at Bethnal Green. You were eating a vegetarian sausage roll. I leaned across to pick the pastry off your sweatshirt. You looked surprised.
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To the man with the guitar case on the 18.11 from St James’ Street to Liverpool Street. Despite the impression I may have given, I never want to see you again in my life.
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Tall dark stranger in the gas mask on the N73 on Tuesday. You have slipped into my dreams in a way I find distressingly arousing. Can we discuss over drinks?
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To the man who helped me with my large orange bag at Euston Station yesterday evening.  I think I’m pregnant. It’s not yours but I simply didn’t know who else to tell.
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To everyone on the overcrowded 149 to Edmonton Green on Friday at about 6.30. Yes I was crying. Yes you could have said something. And yes it would have  fucking helped.
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To the absolutely stunning blonde at Waterloo late last night. I was the guy you were making eyes at. Just realised the card I gave you was actually my wife’s. Please don’t try calling.
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To rats and the dogs and the cats and the tramps and the foxes of Wandsworth. Thanks for always being there.
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You are the petite Spanish (?) girl who’s always on the 277 at about 8 in the morning. Just to let you know I’m watching out for you.
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We met in Gordon’s Wine Bar near Embankment. I told you I was in a member of the Klaxons. This isn’t true. I just didn’t know what else to say.
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You were the elderly man covered in sick and chips and ketchup near Old Street Station. I’m only point this out so you realise how unlikely it is that I’d want or need your phone number. But thanks, anyway.
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Red headed woman. Please. I haven’t slept in over a fortnight. I’m on paid leave. Riding buses all day long.
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I think you said your name was Celine. I couldn’t hear very well through the screaming. But let’s meet up when things have calmed down.
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It was 5am and I was the only person on the bus. You came on and sat next to me but didn’t say a thing for the whole 50 minute journey. You got off one stop before me.
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You were wearing skinny jeans, a skin tight leopard print vest and a Hope not Hate baseball cap. Remind yourself of that in 30 years time.
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You had mud on the bottom of your heels and when I asked you where it came from you looked confused. I offered you a tissue but you said it was too late for that.
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Heavy-set man in a baseball cap. You stole my hold-all on the 205 on Whitechapel Road. Please don’t look in the bag. Please do not look in the bag.
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You were on your bike at Elephant & Castle. I wolf-whistled from a passenger seat nearby. They told me to do it. I didn’t want to. I’m sorry.
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The man carrying a cat on the District Line on Saturday morning. I’ve thought about it some more and the cat was definitely already dead.
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Girl with an iphone on the top deck of the N8 last night at around 1.26am. I couldn’t help reading over your shoulder and I just wanted to say that I wasn’t staring just at you.
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This is your final warning.
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Dominic in the lobby of the National Theatre. I wasn’t asking for change, just the time. But yes, go fuck yourself.
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To the lady with only one shoe on Oxford Street. I was the guy on the moped. I was serious and I still am.  Just so you know.
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