Dear Rosalind:
My elusive, reclusive ex-pat - where are you at?
Are you still in Spain? The land of cheap hotels, bad food (potatoes, patatas), and rain. Have my emails ended up in your 'junk' file? Or are our Iberian neighbours still using the Minitel instead of the world wide web?
I must confess reaching an understanding of how or indeed what you feel about me is as hard as nailing jelly to a wall. One moment you want me (yes? no?), the next I may as well not exist at all (an ignoble gas!?).
If you think me arrogant, then I am the least arrogant person you know; if you think me ignorant, I can only rejoinder by asking what it is you know that I do not?
Rosalind, you should realise I topped up my Oyster card a full £20 in preparation for meeting you on your arrival back into the country! £20 is a half-decent bottle of Scotch (well, a drinkable one at least - have a developed a new taste for spirits). And I spent perhaps half an hour blowing up an inflatable mattress for you; it has a slow leak, but three days ago it would have perfectly cushioned your precious derriere (if you happened to be too exhausted to sleep with me, of course).
Naturally, I will be saddened if you are back in London and have not let me know (I am told you can pick up the internet - and consequently emails - anywhere these days, save perhaps Croydon).
I remain very fond of you, even if you have dragged me through the equivalent of fifteen miles of shit (too coarse?), and my feelings for you are not hard for me to rediscover again. Our deepest loves take root in us and need only a little water and light to come to the surface once more - in some circumstances love is like Japanese knot-weed, and to kill it you need weapons-grade pesticides. But I refuse to deflower love: it is, after all, far more than simply a four letter word.
What is your favourite four letter word? I do feel we should play Scrabble again!
Yours faithfully,
Norman
... worth seven points (in Scrabble).
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