Dear Rosalind:
My fly in the ointment of life, my trouble and strife – how are you?
I will try and keep this brief since I am writing on
borrowed time (5 Euros worth) from an interweb computer in a near derelict
Spanish airport hotel (thus excuse spelling mistakes, in part down to
S@pan^^ish key$board).
It is oppressively hot in Madrid , so much so that I have already lost
a layer of skin and a reservoir of water (from my body). I am a human lobster, oven-wrapped in human
clothes, cooking in a dry-heated cassoulet dish (the hotel).
Well, why do I write (email)? Because I went to the embassy an hour or two
ago, arrived in pool of sweat you could have swum five lengths in, and guess
what I was told? That you have been home in London for the last six days!!
I nearly threw a wobbly I was so aghast! Except that I didn’t (Can you deport your own
kind back to your own country? Perhaps so, was in back of mind).
Anyway, I am again, again, AGAIN, truly disappointed in you
and your bad comms. As well as nearly
four hundred pounds (501 Euros at today’s exchange rate) poorer for it. And with no Spanish language edition of Two Broken Hearts on the horizon, how
will I ever remake this?
I suspect you will not answer this email, even if you
will doubtless read it.
I am beginning to feel misunderstood, or indeed, Tom to your
Jerry (the cartoon cat and rat).
But must go before I really say (write) what I feel – there’s
a burly chap who looks as though he could (and possibly does) eat horses for
breakfast waiting to use the machine.
Yours,
… on the verge of going loco.
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