a cottager , unsuited , in the wrong place , eleanor , joan of marble arch , crashing against me , hoping to loosen my grip , my grip upon this bloody stupid hfl3 and its tin desk , encouraging me , helping me , thanks eleanor , thanks for your harsh words and your strong muscular arse , seducing me with your subjection , clinging to me in your sleep ; thanks for all those comforting hours on that island bed with its silly down quilt that never stays on ; thanks for those realistic morning breakfasts and your short , sharp 'go nows ' : i 'll miss you , are you sure you wo n't come ?