Tuesday, 10 June 2014

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

Dear darkest Rosalind:

My, oh my! That was a hell of a letter you sent me – I don’t need ask how you feel.

I think that (threatening) to get a restraining order you may find difficult since I have not been in your presence for months (book launch aside), nor will any court find anything tantamount to harassment in my comms with you (save that poem, I suppose, but when was the last time poetry was used as evidence within legal circles?!).

You didn’t mention whether your poor hand had healed up, but I am presuming it has since you have managed to write me (by your standards) quite a long letter – all two paragraphs.  Or did that new man of yours do it? (If he is able to read and write that is!).  Why Rosalind? Why?  If I discover he is a Gym teacher or something like that (A Personal Trainer?) then I will be truly, truly disappointed.  Is taste a commodity worth zilch (zero) these days? Or have your standards plummeted? The last Gym teacher I knew had his brains (very small ones) firmly between his legs.  My brain, as you know, is by contrast all together where it should be, it works very well, and between my legs, let me tell you, are explosive kegs (and a V2 rocket).

It doesn’t pay to knock a man when he’s down (or a woman – I am not as you suggest a sexist, or a misogyothingy), especially a man who has flattered you TO THE ENDS OF THE EARTH.  I could also complain about your complete ingratitude, but to someone as patently narcissistic as you I am not sure I should bother (but just in case, it is worth remember this: twenty-six love letters, a free signed copy of my first book, one dead dog, and on and on).

What if I never ever (ever) wrote to you (ever) again?!  I can read between the lines, Rosalind, that you care for me; there is a fine boundary between love and hate in any loving relationship, a switch that can be tripped at the smallest affront – I apologise if I have tripped yours.  And you know if you really didn’t ‘care a hang’ as you so magnanimously claim, my letters would be met with indifference, nothing more, nothing less.  Your reaction to my last letter IS NOT an indifferent one.

You hate me, you love, but all you need is me.

Trust me!

Yours assuredly,

Norman.

… calm and collectable.

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