Dear C,
The unseasonably calm nature of your latest missive is troubling in the extreme. Could it be that your intense study of yoga these past few years has actually paid off, and that you have now entered the state of nirvana, so prized by soul-searching rock stars and suburban housewives alike? If so, I’m afraid I must chide you for continuing to practice a pursuit that went out of fashion around the same time as Kurt Cobain. But then again, dear C, I could never accuse the woman whose youngest practically emerged from the womb wearing a pair of pink Crocs of being anything but a trendsetter, so a more likely explanation, surely, is that the HM has proven to be far better at touching you than hubby. Either that, or the effect of all those pre-party cosmos I know he likes to mix up has yet to wear off.
Speaking of bliss, managed to score my own little stash of Mother’s Little Helper last night – from dear old Dad, no less! He swears that it’s the best thing for jet-lag, and sure enough, I emerged from my room the next day just in time for cocktails. It’s going to be a good week.
Faithfully,
P.
P.S. So sorry to hear of the incident last night down at the Village Hall. From the description you supplied of the woman’s thighs, I’m guessing it was ‘Mad Dog’ Bitsy Douglas from the Village Traffic Committee you encountered – the woman who wants to turn her entire street into a vehicle-free zone, ‘to protect the children’ you understand. Never mind that it means the rest of us will have to tack on a 15 minute detour onto each and every journey we make, as a result. I suggest we strike back with a counter-proposal to restrict all traffic in the village to that conducted by horse-drawn carriage. If this is the woman the obc chooses to betray me with, then he really will get what he deserves!
