a one hundred and twenty eighth story...'norman's eighteenth love letter'.

Dear Rosalind:

My dear prudence, my beautiful recluse, the noose around my neck – I hope you are OK.

I am hanging on here, Ros.  Hanging on to hear from you – call me, write me, send a pigeon, whatever!

Also, I am tired today: so very tired of trying to do the right thing.  Moral judgements, eh!? 

But already enough of being cryptic! I will leave that to the Ancient Egyptians.

When we were last together, which seems nearly a lifetime ago, I did make you laugh, didn’t I?  (Or so I recall).  Yes, humour is our best survival instinct!  And we did more than just survive that evening, didn’t we?!  How many bottles of wine were consumed? (Rhetorical, of course, but I remember at least two and half! P.S. You don’t owe me a cent).

Your laughter was so pure, gushing like a virginal mountain stream.  I long to hear you laugh once more.  Will you come to the book launch? (Venue tbc).  At worst you could pick up a signed copy of my magnum opus; I assume you’ve read the sample chapter by now (it has been over a month since I sent it), and you’ve seen Collins’ idea of a book cover! Why does everything have to be about sex these days? Or is that rich coming from me? I don’t know. Do I care?

I’ve been thinking, in the meantime, of a dedication.  Here’s what I initially came up with: ‘To Rosalind, a window unto my soul’.  But since Jeffrey Archer’s letter I have change it to this: ‘For Jeffrey Archer, who raised the bar for us all’.  Thoughts welcome!  (Why not just say ‘yes’ or ‘no’ and send a goddamn post-it-note!).

Fritz is sulking this afternoon: could be the heat, could be the new dog food he’s on.  Sometimes I wish dogs could talk – it would assuage my guilt.  Fritz and his mother-me eyes!!  It melts my heart, and yet my heart is hardening (do you hear!?). 

… By the way, this last bit is intended as a joke (but it is hardening a little – my heart that is).

Now, Rosalind, the future will very soon be all around us.  Honey: You know where to find me! (If you can’t remember, here’s my address again: 7 Ainger Rd, Primrose Hill, London, NW3 3AR).

Adieu!

Yours,

Norman.

… wondering.