Like a forlorn gumshoe without a crime to solve, I wandered the streets of this smoggy city, aimless and quite alone. Then I crossed her path and everything changed. She was on my mind every minute and every second of those minutes. I mulled over her every enunciation and then remulled over those enunciations. My inner world became a delightful delirium, an aesthetically overwhelming mash-up: her graceful perambulation, her shoulder blades, her calves, her ankles, her hips, the tinkling bell of her laugh, her lively eye-balls, all that shite. She ruled my mind like a lovely dictator so I asked her out for dinner and then a movie.
She momentarily excused herself in the restaurant, leaving a small number of her belongings on our table. Amongst these belongings lay a hair clip, one that she kept removing and reinserting for some feminine reason that was beyond me. I regarded the clip and my heart swelled at the sweetness of the object. It held her hair in place. HER hair. It was a little baby blue clip and it was there, on the table, resting. It was adorable. I began speaking to it. 'Who's the little clip?' I asked it rhetorically. 'You are,' I answered, 'you are the little ickle blue hair clip'. Becoming absorbed in this reverential interrogation of the inanimate object, I lowered my head closer to the clip and tickled it under its chin (or where it would most likely have a chin if it had a chin). 'You're the ickleist, loveliest, ickle dickle clip in the world, aren't you, yes you are, yes you are,' I said in a somewhat ridiculous voice through pursed lips. I then realised that she (the clip's owner and wearer) had returned from the bathroom and was standing behind me. Looking perturbed, she retook her seat.
No matter how hard I tried, from that point on, all attempt at conversation was futile. She ate quickly and after the meal she made an excuse and stood to go. As she left, I called after her. 'You forgot your. . .' I held up the hair clip, 'this' I said weakly. She looked at me with mild disdain and told me I could keep it. 'I hope the two of you will be very happy together,' she said and then walked away.
I never saw her again but have since heard that she formed an organisation called The Immigration Control Platform. Oh Aine, how the heart makes fools of us all. Lucky break I suppose, I still have the lovely ickle clip and at least that's not racist.