Dear C,

About to venture into London for the first time this trip, and must admit to not sharing the stiff upper lip of my compatriots when it comes to the prospect of staring down terrorism and taking the tube.  As a result, am contemplating wearing my best running shoes, in preparation for hiking across town, or for the eventuality that I must leg it, should trouble arise.  Of course, said footgear will seriously compromise my outfit, so may end up wearing the Ferragamos instead, but these might serve me better for climbing over old ladies in any case.

On one point, at least, I stand firm.  The terrorists will never stop me from going shopping and having lunch with my sister!

Faithfully,

P.

Dearest P,

Although I admire your bravery, I must encourage your immediate return to D.C.  Not so much b/c it’s safer here, as we clearly head the list of targets, but rather b/c it’s much more difficult to process the risk with the level-headed sorts who have remained in town.  Much better, I think, to share a panic mode with a dear friend and neighbor and act constantly on edge with the cherubs.  If they are forced to live now like they have been reared in the Middle East, surely they will be more prepared to face the police state they will surely grow into in the near future.

By the way, I am slightly concerned about possible random bag searches on the metro here.  Hubby occasionally visits a shop near Dupont Circle for special "for our eyes only" gifts for me.  Wonder how the metro police might view something he claims is only a "rabbit" but is hot pink and vaguely resembles a fat sword.  Would proudly proclaim it my own if stopped, but am afraid hubby may be a bit too squeamish for this sort of thing.  May take to fighting the terrorists in the streets myself if they start interfering with my sex life.  After all, this girl just wants to have fun.

By the way, have you and the oldballandchain made provision for the items remaining here if, God forbid, you should get caught in the crossfire in London?  I’m happy to donate the circa 1985 Gap sundresses b/f anyone should know you owned them and, as the desirable outfits are all with you, only ask that hubby be able to create a living memorial with the oldballandchain’s Xbox which filled so many otherwise lonely hours for the men we love.

Faithfully,

C.

Dear C,

Well, I’ve finally had my brush with High Society, in the form of last night’s fashion show at [insert stodgy museum] designed to show the influence of Middle Eastern design on haute couture and raise a few pennies for charity, by way of an afterthought.  Forgive my naivete, dear C, but I had no idea that it was common practice for senators to spend leisure time hob-nobbing with representatives the Axis of Evil.  There was also a prodigious amount of female flesh on display – and I’m not just talking about myself here, either. Silly me, I thought they frowned on that kind of thing in Saudi Arabia! By contrast, the models were pictures of decorum as they strutted their stuff on the catwalk sans underwear, if only because they generally managed to keep their breasts inside their clothes.

But nothing was perhaps so troubling as the sight of so many women in their sixties attempting to inject, starve and nip themselves into clothes that should never be worn by anyone over the age of twenty. Think Night of the Living Zombies meets Bride of Chucky, and you’ll get the idea. Which just goes to show, dear C, since it’s all downhill from here anyway, we might as well enjoy the ride.  What do you say we hit Krispy Kreme up for some donuts, then go shopping at Dress Barn?

Faithfully,

P.