Will I recline supine,
Upon a pavement
To discuss with a friend
A hundred miles away
The appalling absence
Of stars in the hazy London sky.

Will I dance
Like a Dionysian she devil
Losing my inhibitions
My sense of reality
My dignity, and,
Most devastatingly,
My Manolo Blakniks

Will I bore a cabby
With the pros and cons
Of Hollywood versus Brazilian,
With the language of gibberish
Allegedly comprising
The directions to my house.

Will I wake the next day
Raiding the contents of
The bathroom cabinet
In an attempt
To reacquaint myself with
And subsequently soothe
The redesigned landscape
Of my bruised body

Henceforth, I shall become a nun
I shall be rechristened Bernadette,
Don a hair shirt
And spend, many,
Many hours, each day
In fervent prayer
Asking for forgiveness
For my numerous and varied sins.