Dear, dreary (but hopefully not too sad) Rosalind:
My petal, my pistil, my stigma, my flower – how are you really?
I was desperately devastated to hear of your mortification
at the death of the good dog, Bruno. I
know you always loved him, always will, just as I shall. He is in dog heaven now though, and we both
know it: lots of warm baskets where to lie, fat sausages to gorge on (without actually worsening his cholesterol),
meadows of freshly cut grass to roll around in.
Did you ever see Rolf Harris’ cartoons of dog heaven? Priceless, just like the man himself (no one
is innocent until proven guilty guilty until proven guilty).
You know, I remember the first time I met you I thought I
was in heaven (human heaven, not dog heaven, of course). Yes, there you were – wispy, winsome,
handsome, cute as a chocolate button. Do
you remember I joked that I had seen you in a Philadelphia Cheese advert? Perhaps
you do not. All the best jokes eh? How does one forget them so readily? I didn’t mean you shared a passing
resemblance to Dawn French by the way.
Glad to see you have bought some new stationery, I do love
the smell of good ink on thick, creamy writing paper – and, surprise, surprise,
your hand-writing is divine! I knew it
would be! Far better than my arthritic
hack (even if I do have turn of phrase to make up for it). But, Rosalind, you
are into parataxis! But why ever, I
suppose, use too many words? (sorry, yet another rhetorical question).
Two letters to my six, now.
I do believe I am wearing you down.
You are my rock, and I the wind, the rain, the blistering sun (i.e. the
elements). We are experiencing the
meteorology of love. If the forecast
suggests, perhaps I should pay a visit to Michael Fish, instead of my usual
psychoanalyst? I don’t much like my
psychoanalyst anymore besides: she is dreadfully scatter-brained, and says I am
‘impenetrable.’
Speaking of impenetrable, no word (still) from the
publishers. I shall write to them and
see where they are with my book – there must have been several editorial board meetings; I can picture in my mind the
discussions, both excitable and yet cautious at the extraordinary appeal such a
book may generate. Will they be able to
meet demand and avoid a very public humiliation?! If not, I suppose, any publicity is good
publicity (so they say).
Righto, Rosalind, I will bid you farewell (but only for a
short while, worry not!).
Yours,
… waving happily, not drowning.
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