I should point out that I never dated Pierre. He was a little on the thin side for one thing, and had trouble remembering where he had parked his car. Milk for tea was an alien concept. Tea itself was an alien concept. I spent one night on a camp bed in his living room, having declined his invitation to 'walk a portion of the way' with him, which I took to be code for a cosier sleeping arrangement.
So without further ado, here is my story:
"Pierre was a philosophy student at Nice University with Communist leanings, a punk haircut and a year to live - something about an Alsatian and a heart attack. Certainly his cadaverous features and shabby clothes suggested a fey attitude to life, as did the squalor of his ant-infested council flat. A dog-eared poster of Lenin hid peeling paint in the bathroom, while photos of Watford cemetery decorated the living room walls. An insomniac, Pierre spent most nights in the abattoir opposite, 'looking on'. He rarely ate, and the only provisions in the flat were a tin of salsify and a bowl of pear halves, black with mould. For entertainment, he read overdue library books and listened to bootleg tapes. He once gave a party, but a fight broke out, the stereo was clogged with peanuts and Pierre collapsed. He turned a disquieting shade of purple, but survived."