Dear C,

So sorry I haven’t been in contact of late. Rest assured, I haven’t disappeared in a puff of smoke. Rather, I have been busy fielding a number of emails and invitations from friends and family, wishing me Many Happy Returns on reaching my most recent ‘milestone’ birthday. Quite why people have chosen to be so kind to me on what otherwise might have been a difficult occasion is something of a mystery. The day dawned auspiciously enough, when one of the twins made me breakfast in bed, then left me in peace to eat it! It continued with phone calls and deliveries of flowers from friends, which put me in such a good mood that I simply laughed when the florist delivered a funeral arrangement by mistake. The Oldballandchain even went so far as to give me a massage – the paying kind, for once, not the usual five minute shoulder rub that invevitably results in some kind of happy ending. For him. Most gratifying of all, perhaps, was when my other daughter inquired, seemingly in all innocence, whether or not I had lost weight. The memory of this comment still brings tears of joy to my eyes, almost a week later. (more…)

Darling P,

It is, all age related issues aside, so wonderful to have you back in the Village.  Most unfortunate that you will no longer be among those of us who still cling tenaciously to the belief that our thirties will last forever.  But I do so enjoy having older friends like you and don’t want you to worry for one instant that our friendship will change just b/c you are now so clearly in your declining years.

While away, you may not have known that I became embroiled in a bit of a spat with the Village Board.  I can imagine your shouts of “Quelle Surprise!” bc you do know I always try to maintain a certain level of decorum in my dealings with others.  It is, alas, only when push comes to shove (fortunately it isn’t literal this time) that I must assert my most reasonable positions rather aggressively.  Seems, however, that tethering myself to the poor diseased Dutch elm straddling our property and that of the Village hasn’t succeeded in convincing the Board that we shouldn’t have to pay for its removal.  (more…)

P,

You must forgive my failure to attend to you in London last week, but short of tunneling under the sea, I was unable to remove myself from an escape called Club Med, tucked in a quite unassuming and cultish manner into the island of Guadeloupe.  Can’t say you wouldn’t have enjoyed the barely legal boys called Gentile Organizateurs (GOs for short) from Montreal nor did I avoid the slightly filthy older French men who cast a disdainful glance my way.  However, as I mostly had at least one cherub tucked over a hip or under a thigh at each moment, I am unable to report I successfully fulfilled your fantasties or mine while there. 

Did remember why tourism in France may have fallen off since the last Great War as their hospitality consists largely of a sneer and a sharp retort, but it couldn’t have helped that hubby showed anyone who would listen his version of the French salute (yes, yes, his arms raised in surrender) without much provocation at all.  As we have been officially escorted from the French colony since then, without any plans or invitations to return, I can report another sighting of my Nemesis—in your own home.  Traffic is surely an absorbing topic to someone like the obc, dearest P, but is the leather whip I noticed she carried required to keep his attention at a lagging moment?  Or is that for the return of the horse and buggy to our little village? 

Don’t want to suggest you’re naive, my friend, but I did notice the obc hobbling a little when he put out the recycling this a.m.  Yes, yes, he did actually put it out in your absence, which is normally enough to raise my suspicion level, but the deep cuts on the backs of his thighs made me consider whether I must keep your cherubs for the rest of your visit home.  Your prompt reply is most certainly my fondest hope.

Faithfully,

C.   

Dearest C,

No need to apologise for the lapse in communication over the past week or so.  I know you and yours were busy sunning yourself in the Islands, prior to mailing out the ultimate eat-your-heart out family holiday card, to arrive on friends’ doorstep just as they prepare to contemplate the joyless abyss that is the week between Christmas and the New Year.  BTW, were you finally able to persuade your mother not to appear topless?  If not, a couple of Photoshoped coconuts should cover your embarrassment – or you could always use the same program to enhance your own assets on a level with hers.  God forbid that we should be outshone by the women who gave birth to us!

As you can tell, any positive effects from my own pre-Christmas jaunt to London wore off faster than the buzz from my in-flight  cosmo.  On the bright side, a spot of turbulance over the Arctic Circle resulted in a twisted ankle and an upgrade to First Class, where I was able to partake of some liquid nourishment from a fully-reclined position.  Unfortunately, my trusty ankle has since proven more of a hindrance, when it comes to beating a hasty retreat the family caroling – nasty habit that, spontaneously breaking into song whenever I approach.

Thanks for keeping a sharp eye on things while I was gone.  Other than appearing considerably thinner, and more cheerful, than before I left, I see no change in behavior on the part of the oldballandchain that might indicate his participation in a relationship with a woman whose ankles put many a tree trunk’s to shame.  But I intend to check his back for scratch marks tonight, all the same.  You never know what turns on a traffic nerd.

Faithfully,

P.