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

Dear Rosalind:

My lover, my hater, my alma mater - are you still angry?

Strange to say (write) I have never before felt such incandescent affecteusement a toi (affection for you). Both your simmering silence, as well as the wrath ringing in my ears following our last exchange has launched me beyond the 'event horizon'; I am, Rosalind, tumbling head over feet into the (apparent) black hole of infatuation.  Will I be crushed into nothingness? Or will you throw me a rope of hope?  The decision is yours! (if I were you, I'd plump for the latter - the rope ...).

All this may come as something of a surprise, but I am a man's man (have I mentioned?) and I positively relish attrition.  Ros, we are two continents (stay with me) on a collision course, and the earth between us has already felt the first tremors of a love that could/will build mountains.  One day little people (our babies) will climb upon our shoulders and even (taking health and safety into account) sit on our summits (our heads).

You know we have one thing going for us in particular: We both acknowledge one another's faults and failings, and now they are out in the open, free to wander off into the sunset (hand in hand?) never to return.  Left behind then will only be the good in us, and though I can speak (write) only for (of) myself, there is plenty to mine - our hearts will intertwine like golden thread and treasure of the rarest kind will be woven (my line).

I confess it has taken some 'Dutch courage' to compose this letter (two cans of Oranjeboom), but don't doubt my sincerity for a nanosecond.  In the past week I have thought about you every waking minute, from the dawn chorus to my bedtime (just before the ITN news at ten).

And be honest with yourself, as I am - your Gym teacher friend could never share his feelings for you (if he has any beyond wanting ownership of your body) in the way I do. (In fact, he's probably not even capable of choosing you a decent postcard from a knocking-shop in Magaluf).

Bearing my breast!

Yours illustriously,

Norman.

... braced for teutonic tectonic collision.