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 s*** 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.