a one hundred and twenty second story...'norman's twelfth love letter'

Dear Ros (abbr.):

My finger, my thumb, the angel honey in my tum - how are you coping?

No word for a while, but I am sure you have your hands full fighting the feminist cause!  A good cause, in spite of its somewhat abrasive nature (you wouldn’t throw yourself under a race horse now, would you?).

Remember that letter I sent to Collins a month ago about publishing specifications for my book?  Still yet to receive reply (perhaps they only answer to emails, or the Twitter).  Am I right to feel slightly affronted?  Publication of a book ends always in a tug-of-war for ownership between author and publisher, I have read, and long silences, I suppose, must be part of the game for one-upmanship; a shame, you might think, and yet the best art so often comes from a place of friction.

Ros(alind), when I am an established author, and the royalty cheques are tumbling through the letter box (along with fan mail), you will be the first person with whom I share my riches.  In my mind’s eye I can see exactly where I would whisk you away: think mountains, lakes and misty forests.  Have you read the sample chapter I sent you?  I don’t doubt you would enjoy the prose, even if the visceral nature of the story might make you shudder.

Anyhow, what else?  Walking Fritz on Primrose Hill this week ran into somebody famous, or so a fellow dog-walker later informed me: Russell Brand, have you heard of him?  I am told he’s a political comedian, but he looked more like the North London incarnation of Rasputin to me - very long hair, which I assume has not seen soap or water (or shampoo) for several weeks.  What happened to the great generation of English entertainers – David Frost, Rolf Harris et al.  (I am, in part, being rhetorical, realise Frost is deceased).

Well, I’d like you to write me if you’re no longer cross with me.  Feelings just seem to pour out of me like body fluid(s), and sometimes I cannot control myself - when it comes to affairs of the heart I am simply incontinent.

Perhaps I should get a grip! (gulp).

Yours achingly,

Norman.

… sore for love.