a one hundred and fourteenth story...'norman's fourth love letter'

Dear Rosalind, deary me:

My first love, my last; my best suit, my worst – your silence wears me – but how are you?

I am slow-realiser, Rosalind, and I am slowly realising that it may be my letters are not getting through to you. Or, are they simply getting way-laid in the mail (if so, you won’t be able to answer this, of course, but please, Mr. Postman, Mr. Censor?)?

Rosalind, even the merest scrap of paper with your name hastily scrawled on it (with a kiss?) would be enough for me – there is a place beyond words, after all, where we can communicate should you so desire.  Have you tried Transcendental Meditation?  I think I may take it up, if only to ‘talk’ (‘tune in’?) to you.  But your silence is deathly!  Perhaps I would do better with a Ouija board (?).

Now, Rosalind, I have some bad news to share with you (‘not more bad news!’, I hear you sigh): Bruno (one of my Bullmastiffs – you’ve met him) bit a child when I was walking him around Hampstead Heath, yesterday.  Said child made a frightful scene, not to mention his wretched (and probably filthy rich) parents.  I’ve seen POWs less hysterical!  But what it may mean is that Bruno, bless his canine soul, be put down, or, as the veterinary profession so compassionately puts it, be ‘destroyed’.  This practice completely ignores the fact that Bruno’s death would destroy me too, at least on the insides, where there is already decay.  And what will become of this child now it lives?  A life of milk and plenty, that’s what!

Would you like me to send you a copy of my manuscript (now completed)?  The ending (honeymoon car crash in the French Riviera) may seem a little abrupt, but death comes suddenly to us all (well, most of us, no?); death comes as hard and fast as running face first into an invisible brick wall.

Anyway, I’ve some time on my hands having completed my tour de force (it is, Rosalind, believe me!), and would greatly love to be able to see YOU.  The blossom on the Heath is out, and there’s the scent of summer in the air – it’s really quite romantic.  You might want to help me walk the dogs? (let us hope that I can continue to use the plural in the weeks to come).  Alternatively, I know a delightful café in Hampstead, and it has the most darling waitresses, and hot steaming cups of exotic Brazilian coffee …

Have you ever considered the aroma of food and, or drink erotic?

Yours unwaveringly,

Norman.

…unrequited and yet undeterred!