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

Dear Rosalind:

My treacle sponge, my jam roly poly, my one and only – how are you please?

No phone call, no reply to my letters - is your fair hand so badly damaged that you cannot pick up the receiver and dial my number, or indeed scratch out a note on the back of an old envelope (put it in another one and send to me)? 

Things are rather glum here and I need a little BLT TLC … and if you wish me to visit the second hand shop on your behalf (ha?) …

Either way I may be looking for quality seconds any time soon since that wretched UKIP representative has sued me for 3000.  I haven’t seen the full extent of his injury, but I can’t help feeling he is showing more than a little prejudice in his claim on account of my name and possible ancestry: Norman Gerrard (both with potential French lineage). 

Until now I had never traced the roots of my family tree, but in the last day or two have felt obliged, in part to see whether I really am (God forbid) of French origin.  I suppose somewhere along the birth line some poor soul related to me was, though evidence is (typically) scant: the French have never been record keepers, or shown very much in the way of attention to detail (I put this down to the lack of a stabilising force in French society in shape of a Monarchy).

By the way, did you see Prince Philip on the television last weekend?  As usual on damned fine form and made some damned funny remarks about our Indian cousins.  Not sure why he gets such a bad press from the pinko left; mind you socialists tend to lack humour and manners, and money.

But I should stop talk of money – after all I may have to settle out of court with this UKIP fellow and that will put pay to a few extravagances (including, my dear Rosalind, our fated trip to Monte Carlo).

Now, I’ve had a first couple of reviews posted to me by my editor, Charles, for Two Broken Hearts.  One was rather complimentary, describing the book as (in places) ‘gripping’; the other I can only imagine was written by a madman (or madwoman), who evidently had not read the thing.  Who in their right mind would describe my writing as ‘tawdry’, ‘verbose’ and ‘boorish’? (Say something nice here!).  And who would have the gall to summarise any book put out under the esteemed brand of Collins ‘adolescent tripe’?  I mean what on earth does he (or she) mean by ‘adolescent tripe’?  It makes no sense.  Naturally I have replied to this chap (or chappess) with some choice words of my own.

Fight fire with fire is what I say! 

Yours,

Norman.

… your loving flame.