On the English Riviera with the penguins and the waders.
In a chip shop on the front with the tacky seaside traders.
In a flooded cottage kitchen by the fire that you built.
In a B & B in Peebles, underneath a rented kilt.
In Barnardo's, Cancer Research, in Shelter and Oxfam.
In a quiet pub in Skipton, on a rusty Blackpool tram.
The Pleasure Beach and Coral Island, at the end of the North Pier.
On the moors with the wild ponies and the sheep sh** and the deer.
In a corner of the Sub Club.
On the Art School's old dance floor.
In the hall and in the bath, just outside the downstairs door.
On a hillside in the Trossachs,
on the busy NY streets, in a hotel by a park, it's written in the sheets.
In the sand at Ilfracombe,
halfway up the A82,
the tallest cinema in Europe,
standing sighing in the queue.
The all-night garages of Glasgow,
the freezing streets of Aberdeen,
in every corner, every room and every bed we've ever been.
That's where we've left our love.