Don't muck about with the moon

Lying here in Saint Feasance's, the straps on the bed tight but not uncomortably so, I am minded of a day- an afternoon; the sandwiches yet unwrapped- when I sat waiting on the banks of the Poddle, phrasing and rephrasing the words I hoped would catch and keep her when and if she passed the spot and I accidentally bumped into her (or she into me?)

I have her helmet now, and goggles. Somewhere.