We did have some hot days in London at the start of this summer, 2009, and I spent some evenings in bars in Camden Town and Islington. This poem was penned on napkins and beer-mats in gastro-pubs whilst my drinks partner checked messages and scanned the bar for friends. Or that's the way it felt. "You're Still Number One" sounds like a catchy song title yet its a refrain that whirled around my brain like single malt in a crystal tumbler. Sometimes you aren't sure who is number one but you surely know when you're with number nowhere. 

You’re Still Number One

Summer evenings pass in a blur

A thousand scents, a hundred bars,

Golden limbs, Frankincense and Myrrh,

Dissonant chatter, cacophony of guitars,

Gazing into yet another girl’s eyes

(Tears unshed, the damage to be done,)

Her fragrance, her perfumed sighs,

She’s not you, you’re still number one.

Now her blackberry bleeps

So annoying, so fucking rude,

Sipping Mohitos whilst messaging tweets,

(Call me a taxi, remodel the mood,)   

I know her body has a gilded allure

But her laughter’s off-kilter, no sense of fun,

She’s not got your eyes, that haunting azure,

She’s just not you, you’re still number one.

I’m making excuses, I’m calling the bill,

She’s got the message, her eyes work the room,

She’s item A on the Camden rumour mill,

“Hey babes, its been real, lets catch up soon”

I smile as she sashays to the pixelated bar,

Mannequin on the move, like a loaded gun,

She hasn’t your style, your effortless charm,

She’ll never be you, my sweet number one.