Thursday 26 June 2014

a one hundred and thirty fourth poem...'shit poems'

Writing shit or silly poems
Isn’t a whole lot of fun …
But what else is one to do
When life hasn’t yet begun?

a one hundred and thirty third poem...'chiles' rhetorical paradox'

Would you rather be
Several thousand miles
From Adrian Chiles?
Or see him every night
On ITV?

a one hundred and thirty second poem...'little lionel'

Little Lionel’s
Atrophied feet and legs
Are capable
Of many things
Including: nutmegs,
Keepy-uppies, and step-overs,
Thirty yard volleys to
Better Roy o’ Rovers.
Little Lionel’s
Atrophied feet and legs
Together are the
World’s most talented
Set of pegs,
Pins, limbs, ones and twos
- if he’s playing against you,
You’re guaranteed
To lose.

a one hundred and thirty first poem...'roy'

I have a flightless
Bird in my hand -
His name is Roy.
He has a fat beak
And is very self-conscious
About it.  He won’t
Eat and he can’t sleep, is
Depressed because he
Can’t beat his
Short little wings,
And worst of all,
He can’t even sing.  

a one hundred and thirtieth poem...'suarez'

I love Luis Suarez
And want him to
Bite ME hard on
The cheek, and
Give me a kiss
Like a kick in the
Teeth – all this before we
Elope to Transylvania
Forever.

Wednesday 18 June 2014

a one hundred and fifty first story...'norman's love letters: post-script'.

Dear Ms Darrow:

I am writing to inform you with sadness of the death of your next of kin Mr Norman Gerrard.

Regretfully, Norman was found dead last Thursday in a lock-up garage in the Fuencarral-El Pardo city district of Madrid.

We are not sure of the exact details of the last few days, weeks, and months of Norman’s life, but on your behest we will endeavour to do our best to discover what we can.

If it is of any comfort, I am told by the medical team who examined his body he died quickly, perhaps even peacefully.

We apologise for the delay in providing you with this information, it proved difficult for us to ascertain the identity of the deceased.

But we have since taken steps to ensure the relevant organisations and institutions associated with the personal welfare of the deceased have been contacted.   

Sincerely,

Thomas Waldron.

British Consulate, Madrid.

a one hundred and fiftieth story...'norman's fortieth love letter'.

Dear Rosalind:

My guardian angel.

I know you will not reply to this letter.  You may not even receive it.

Only the Lord himself has a clue what has become of you (or what shall become of me).

Nevertheless, on the off-chance I write.

It is likely I will never see you again.

Tomorrow, we (Willy’s circus band and me) set out on the road.

I: lion tamer.

Willy has made us all sign forms in case we suffer injury or death during the coming season, and since I have no next of kin (and don’t wish to drag Charles into all this – he’s probably already disowned me anyhow since I’ve been out of touch for nearly six months), I have put down your name.

Please forgive me if this is a great nuisance to you – I wasn’t sure who or what else I could do.

And please forgive me for everything else.

I am only a human being - bones, skin and a harmful little brain - and I never asked to be born in the first place.

So the sun sets.

Yours eternally,

Norman.

… free to roam once more.

Tuesday 17 June 2014

a one hundred and forty ninth story...'norman's thirty ninth letter'.

Querido Rosalinda!

My ferris wheel, coconut shy, my slot machine - como estas?

Are you still at the same direccion?  Still living in Londres?  It has been a while!

And you may have been wondering whether I found El Cid (or for that matter Sophia Loren).  But it turns out El Cid has been deceased (muerto) several hundred years, and Sophia remains alive by the grace of God (albeit living in Italy or Hollywood).

You may have been wondering too what in King Juan Carlos' name I am doing with myself, save at this momento writing to you.  Well, I am at last living among friends!

London: home of the brash, outrageous and free, or so it used to be - but now London is dead!

Albaceta is my new surround, a small, dusty little town that happens to be the home of a fine circus band, run by a charismatic dago named Willy Zavatta.  Willy and company are currently wintering here, waiting to go back out on the road when the weather gets warm again to perform the most important service known to man: entertainment.

Willy, proud loud and hairy, lives in an Arabian tent, and only emerges when it is time for rehearsals.  Rehearsals are a fine spectacle, mind you, with Willy addressing via a megaphone (like a demented General Franco) his troop of juggling clowns, transsexual acrobats, mustachioed fire-eaters, and catapulting dwarves, putting them all through their paces - Quite a sight to see! (Also part of the show are two donkeys, a lion (possibly kidnapped?), and a baby elephant apparently from North Africa).

They (we) are a merry band of misfits (largely thanks to a copious intake of sherry) ... BUT IT'S OK ... Don't worry about me (them), Rosalind, I am (they seem) 'fino'.  And I don't miss city life one iota (is that a Spanish word too?), and neither does anyone else here.

No, I feel satiated!  We live in a cosy corral of rusty old caravans, and though we are poor (Willy keeps a tight rein on the purse strings), we have a mercifully simple life, we simple, happy few. Meanwhile, one of the transsexual acrobats is a marvelous cook, has us all well fed, can do eggs two hundred different ways! And if you've never been aroused by somebody peeling a potato ...

So, where do I fit in to the whole carnival?  Well, nowhere and anywhere; everywhere and nowhere.

I may not have stumbled on El Cid, yet I may just have found El Dorado instead!

There is, after all, gold in the Gypsy's palm!

Yours richly,

Norman.

... trainee lion tamer.

a one hundred and forty eighth story...'norman's thirty eighth love letter'.

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Tel: 0033 902 222 171

Dear Rosalind:

My departed, my possibly gone forever, my never never land – perhaps there will be no nation of two!

I am scrawling this on the back of a taxi chit (hence small hand-writing) in the hope it may reach you (if right postage attached).  I assume it will arrive after my email of earlier this afternoon (sent from hotel)...    

… The burly chap who was waiting to use the machine (see email from hotel), doesn’t in fact eat horses for breakfast (some sort of egg combo instead – a Spanish omelette?), but DOES drive a taxi.  Name is Josep, and he was to be my ride back to the airport terminal, however, instead I have asked him to drive me into the wilderness.

I have decided to JACK IT IN, and go in search of the real El Cid! (And perhaps I will also find the reincarnation of Sophia Loren to be with me eventually!). (Not sure if she’s dead yet, in fact, but can't check right now).

Anyhow, remember, sweet Rosalind: whatever happens I love you (always have, always will).

Space running short…so this is ‘Adios’.

NG

… Your Hamlet.

----** Bonotaxi: Traslados LowCost desde solo 24 eur Precios y reservas OnLine 24 h **----
Tel: 0033 902 222 171

a one hundred and forty seventh story...'norman's thirty seventh love letter'.

Dear Rosalind:

My fly in the ointment of life, my trouble and strife – how are you?

I will try and keep this brief since I am writing on borrowed time (5 Euros worth) from an interweb computer in a near derelict Spanish airport hotel (thus excuse spelling mistakes, in part down to S@pan^^ish key$board).

It is oppressively hot in Madrid, so much so that I have already lost a layer of skin and a reservoir of water (from my body).  I am a human lobster, oven-wrapped in human clothes, cooking in a dry-heated cassoulet dish (the hotel).

Well, why do I write (email)?  Because I went to the embassy an hour or two ago, arrived in pool of sweat you could have swum five lengths in, and guess what I was told? That you have been home in London for the last six days!!

I nearly threw a wobbly I was so aghast!  Except that I didn’t (Can you deport your own kind back to your own country? Perhaps so, was in back of mind).

Anyway, I am again, again, AGAIN, truly disappointed in you and your bad comms.  As well as nearly four hundred pounds (501 Euros at today’s exchange rate) poorer for it.  And with no Spanish language edition of Two Broken Hearts on the horizon, how will I ever remake this?

I suspect you will not answer this email, even if you will doubtless read it. 

I am beginning to feel misunderstood, or indeed, Tom to your Jerry (the cartoon cat and rat).

But must go before I really say (write) what I feel – there’s a burly chap who looks as though he could (and possibly does) eat horses for breakfast waiting to use the machine.

Yours,

Norman.

… on the verge of going loco.

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

Dear disappeared (?) Rosalind:

My star-light, my satellite, my gelignite – I am coming to find you before I explode! (Or you fade altogether).

Six days and no reply to emails.  I am sincerely worried.  But stay wherever you are for I will be on the first aeroplane from LGW (London Gatwick) tomorrow morning (4AM).  Should add I am flying to Madrid (middle of the country so I suppose I am hedging my bets as to your location … let me know?).

Spain is a strange place.  I do hope you haven’t fallen in with any street gangs, or been whisked away to a dungeon by some masked Zoro (in PE kit?).  And whatever you do, do not try the food!  You’ll end up with awkward guts for the rest of your life!  (I had a particularly bad experience with a ‘Seafood Paella’ on my last visit – when I was twelve).

I trust you have not been to the embassy yet?  But Rosalind you MUST.  Not only will it save me a good deal of time trying to find you in the Godforsaken place (Spain), but they (the embassy) can arrange your passage home within moments (thereby saving me the cost of a return flight, as well as travel paraphernalia – Stugeron and so forth).  (If you could go to the embassy within the next three hours I am fairly sure I could get a full refund from British Airways).

Apropos, I am reminded in all this of El Cid – wonderful Technicolor matinee starring the late, great Charlton Heston (former president of the NRA) and Sophia Loren (a real woman!).  Heston’s character is exiled by the King of Spain and Sophia’s Spanish queen sets out to find him (more or less).  Evidently, we have here a case of role reversal.  Yet I need clues, Rosalind!  Sometimes I want to say to you: ‘just be simple!’

Speaking (writing) of simplicity, this is the first time I’ve been glad not to have either of the dogs with me (Fritz and Bruno – remember them?).  Besides they probably still eat dogs in Spain so a fate worse than death (was lethal injection in both instances by the way) would most probably have awaited them (cooked alive with some Paprika and Saffron?).

Anyhow, I digress …

Go to the embassy, please, please, please; or, if impossible, I promise to discover you!

Feels like a test from the Lord (if he exists?).

Yours valiantly,

Norman.

… a crusader.  

Monday 16 June 2014

a one hundred and forty fifth story...'norman's thirty fifth love letter'.

Dear Rosalind:

My elusive, reclusive ex-pat - where are you at?

Are you still in Spain?  The land of cheap hotels, bad food (potatoes, patatas), and rain.  Have my emails ended up in your 'junk' file? Or are our Iberian neighbours still using the Minitel instead of the world wide web?

I must confess reaching an understanding of how or indeed what you feel about me is as hard as nailing jelly to a wall.  One moment you want me (yes? no?), the next I may as well not exist at all (an ignoble gas!?).

If you think me arrogant, then I am the least arrogant person you know; if you think me ignorant, I can only rejoinder by asking what it is you know that I do not?

Rosalind, you should realise I topped up my Oyster card a full £20 in preparation for meeting you on your arrival back into the country!  £20 is a half-decent bottle of Scotch (well, a drinkable one at least - have a developed a new taste for spirits).  And I spent perhaps half an hour blowing up an inflatable mattress for you; it has a slow leak, but three days ago it would have perfectly cushioned your precious derriere (if you happened to be too exhausted to sleep with me, of course).

Naturally, I will be saddened if you are back in London and have not let me know (I am told you can pick up the internet - and consequently emails - anywhere these days, save perhaps Croydon).

I remain very fond of you, even if you have dragged me through the equivalent of fifteen miles of shit (too coarse?), and my feelings for you are not hard for me to rediscover again.  Our deepest loves take root in us and need only a little water and light to come to the surface once more - in some circumstances love is like Japanese knot-weed, and to kill it you need weapons-grade pesticides.  But I refuse to deflower love: it is, after all, far more than simply a four letter word.

What is your favourite four letter word? I do feel we should play Scrabble again!

Yours faithfully,

Norman

... worth seven points (in Scrabble).

Friday 13 June 2014

a one hundred and forty fourth story...'norman's thirty fourth love letter'.

Dearest Ros:

My jewel,  jet-setter, my go-getter - yes I will help you.

Many thanks for your postcard-cum-SOS.  I would like to say I can't believe young sonny Gym left you all on your lonesome (where was it, did you say? Baggage collection at Malaga-Costa del Sol? Ouch!), but this would be a whopping lie.  And don't say I didn't foresee the end of the affair (between you and he).

I can't come and rescue you like a knight in an Hawaiian shirt, shorts and sandals combination, but I can offer moral support via the email (as now).  Go to the embassy, Rosalind, they will be able to get you home in one piece; and providing I don't  have any prior commitments (returning video tapes, library books, that sort of thing) I will be able to meet and greet you at London Gatwick (perhaps with one of those hastily made cardboard signs with your name on it).

So long as we are able to clear a few things up on the taxi ride home, I might also extend board and lodging to you at my place while you recover from your ordeal (I've stayed in those budget Spanish hotels - family holiday when I was twelve - and remember they weren't a great deal more sophisticated than a Baghdad prison, or so one imagines).

I admit I was a little surprised at receiving your call for help, I half-assumed that you were sick to the back teeth of me, but now I realise that you are a helpless femme-fatale in a vulnerable position, and that your recent antipathy towards me was informed more by a general malaise, perhaps also by your vanishing friend - the Gym teacher.  Do you think he has another mistress out there?  There are people (admittedly with seven times the intelligence) that pose as sugar-daddies/babies (?) only to break a person financially or emotionally for their own good (bank balance? Ego? Who knows!).

Rosalind: You poor victim!

How the tables have turned on you in the last month!

If you were a footballer I suppose you would be telling the assembled press that you are: 'gutted'.

Anyway, go to the Embassy as I said.  They are used to dealing with unwashed and slightly dazed holiday-makers, as well as jilted lovers.  Then email me, or call - if I am out on an errand, simply try again later, I will pick up eventually.

And before signing-off, I will end on some good news that I feel sure will cheer you up.  Those fabulous sons at the Daily Mail have picked my book for review and at last somebody has done it justice.  I have attached the full piece (65 words) to this email sent me by Charles: 'Dan Brown meets David Baldacci'!

Yours charitably,

Norman.

... arms (generally speaking) open wide.

a one hundred and forty third story...'norman's thirty third love letter'.

Dear ravaged Rosalind:

My vanquished, tarnished and varnished - how are you?

Thought I would leave it 48 hours before writing again: to let the dust settle in the wake of our legal sand storm where common-sense seemed to entirely desert you.  I hope you have spent the time smarting in defeat.  That said, I don't want to rub Saharan salt in your wounds: Take heart, we humans can learn from our mistakes (even ones as big and idiotic as yours).  Triumph in adversity and so on.

23 (Twenty three) minutes!  Surely something of a record to get a case completely obliterated and thrown out?  You made several errors, of course, as anyone who suffers such an ignominious besting will do along the way, but appointing a toddler to represent you in court was probably the finest!  Old George had him on the ropes in the first ten seconds.  If it had been a boxing match (Queensbury rules etc) the referee (JP) would have stopped the bout after the first round!

Tuesday almost made up for Bruno and Fritz, the book launch fiasco (in fact, definitely the book launch fiasco - have also written to the Islington Gazette to ask them to retract previous accusations about my character), and a host of unfair reviews.

But what about you, Rosalind?

Now you see I am irrefutably a fully upstanding member of society, and a successful one (quite), will this change your feelings for me (again)?  Will the pendulum swing? Ding-dong out goes King-Kong and all that?

IF, if you need any (any) help whatsoever getting back up from the metaphorical canvas after our court tussle, do (please do) let me know.  I can direct you towards a good head-doctor, or (perhaps) offer you a little money (though not too much since Old George's legal fees are somewhat steep - I do wonder where he spends it all). (I don't - he spends at the buffet).  But do phone, write or use the email (abulletfromthepast@gmail.com), I will be as generous as I am able to be (and promise not mention ze war!).

Heading to the National Army Museum, Sunday, to look at some military regalia - short notice, I realise, but would you like to come along?

Yours,

Norman.

... justified.

Thursday 12 June 2014

a one hundred and forty second story...'norman's thirty second love letter'.

Dear unready Rosalind:

My mad adversary - prepare to lose.

I have refrained from writing for a while (in case it merely swelled your 'pool of evidence' in this absurd harassment case).  However, with less than a week remaining before we meet in the legal theatre of blood, I see no reason anymore to desist or resist.

Can you not spy the anvil-headed clouds of justice building over your (tin?) roof, about to burst with rain all over your charade of a parade?  I still cannot imagine why you have conceived of such action save to try and impress (something upon?) your Gym teacher friend.  Believe me, you try too hard - I haven't even properly met the fellow (you never introduced us), but I can tell he would be as impressed by you if you put a bib on him and spoon-fed him Coco-Pops!

Your passive-aggressive silence has left me cold and yet made me bold.  Have consulted my lawyer (the one who helped me settle out of court with that UKIP rat), and he - in between the moments he isn't drunk or drinking - has given me some crystal clear advice and has 'promised' to attend the hearing; he is rather big these days so will come in the wheel chair entrance, which shortly after your cohort will be force to leave through - broken and badly disabled by the full and remorseless force of the law.

In short: let's just settle out of court and be done with it?  500 and quits? (A reasonable sum which will at least pay for new monkey bars in your garden, or a cage in your bedroom).

Apropos, one achievement I managed this last weekend was to finally get that still life of London Zoo painted from the top of Primrose Hill (I am told the zoo adopt - information for which you may thank me for in time).

Meanwhile Two Broken Hearts continues to sell, so I am informed, though I have seen precious little in the way of reviews from Charley.  Charley is my editor, if you recall? (Just trying to catch you out as having an unreliable memory!).  But it is as if he is hiding them (the reviews) from me!  

What are you hiding from me, Rosalind?  Max Clifford's pre-teen lawyer? (The same one that wrote me that vile and perverted letter?).  Come to think of it, why are you hiding? Can't King-Kong protect you from a pale and frail writer such as I, all bony arms and Churchillian legs, who spends his days falling up and down the stairs?!

Yours, 

Norman.

... at large!   

a one hundred and forty first story...'norman's thirty first love letter'.

Dear REVENGEFUL Rosalind:

My temptress, my torturess,  my one-time fortress - you have let me down like a spear in the side of a bouncy castle.

All this while you have been scheming against me!?  Who do you think you are? Lady Macbeth!! You have blood on your hands, Rosalind, the blood that would have been the very source and course of our love.  You have wielded the knife and are about to discover what is inside of me (and it isn't love for you, for that has - probably - now once and for all been spilled altogether).

Your lawyer seems to be a fairly poisonous little rat!  Doctor! Give me Strychnine! (that's a highly toxic vegetable alkaloid commonly used to kill vermin incidentally - yes, I still have the Shorter Oxford with me; Interweb not working).

Perhaps it says something of our respective natures that I subpoena you in the name of love, and you arrange for a writ to be issued charging me with harassment!?  You are afraid (it's a mean old world, I grant you), but fear has become you.  What do you suspect I was/am going to do? Hide in wait for you in the bushes in front of your maisonette (it isn't a house by the way, as you have claimed - I checked on the 'Google Earth'), jump on you, pull your panties down and force sex upon you? (Not even in my wildest dreams have I conceived of such a thing!).

Anyhow, since I am very much a man of my word when I say (write) that I will see you in court, I will.  And in my best suit (the panama).  And bringing my own defence.  And (!) be warned: Not only am I a student of letters, I am also a graduate from the Oxbridge equivalent of the university of life - with honours.  Your wet-behind-the-ears, snotty-nosed law boy can throw the whole bible of legalistic jargon at me if he wishes - it will make no difference! But should you want to bring your Gym teacher friend to court as well, you should remember to inform the JP first since he will need to make special preparations for your primordial entourage. (A couple of flints to rub together? A banana or two to keep him occupied?).

Meanwhile, your attempt to get a restraining order placed on me suggests you have read and kept my letters.  They are the evidence - but evidence of what?  This is a question you should ask yourself before you (unsuccessfully try to) go through with this whole business.

... And who was it said absence makes the heart grow fonder?! (HA!).

Rosalind, if you were here now, I would give you a kiss to rival Judas Iscariot; a kiss that I hope would feel like a jolly solid kick in the teeth.

Yours militantly,

Norman.

... on the war path.

a one hundred and fortieth story...'norman's thirtieth love letter'

Dear Ros-a-lind:

My Mrs Right, Snow White and Cinderella - do I have to spell it out?

I. L.O.V.E. Y.O.U. (reads a bit like an old telegram, no?)

However you try, you cannot rearrange these letters into any other form, or indeed alter both the expression and the sentiment.

I have a dictionary in front of me (the Shorter Oxford no less - all 2515 pages) and I quote: 'To entertain a great regard for; to hold dear; to be devoted or addicted to' ... is to LOVE.

I am your love-bird! (An uncommonly small member of the parrot family native to West Africa, remarkable for the affection it shows for its mate).

Rosalind, I hereby issue you a subpoena in the name of the lore of love!  Answer me! (Please?).

I can't live with the (imagined?) thought of you making mad, hot love to your Gym teacher friend (I assume he needs steroids to get it up), and I won't accept second best. (Especially as in this instance first is the worst and second - if me - is the best).  Rejection is one thing, but rejection in favour of a brainless fool is cruel.

I know (hope) you are a compassionate woman and have self-awareness enough to understand the effect someone of your immeasurably beauty can have on a man (even a man's man such as I). (When I say/write 'man's man' in this context I am not implying I am homosexual).  The world of men (heterosexual) has been rife with pestilence, evil and misery since Pandora opened her wretched toy chest: don't add to the fun and games (this last bit is irony by the way!).

At present, I am sitting on my balcony soaking up a little sun, listening to the background hum of the city - I would be relaxed if I felt confident of your affections; instead I realise I am in danger of becoming a Doubting Thomas! (... maybe, maybe not).

Oh! If ever I needed self-validation (being published doesn't, alas, seem to have delivered it)!

Yours elegiacally (sp?),

Norman,

... soul-mining.

Wednesday 11 June 2014

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

Dear # (hash-tag) Rosalind:

My world wide web, my internet, my cyber pet – how are you?

Just a quick note to say I am now on the Twitter (thanks to Collins).

I am told it is possible for you to follow (stalk?) me, and would you believe it is!  @abulletfromthepast.  So … follow/stalk me!

I’ve also been wired up (not literally) to an email programme.  I imagine that you have one already.  My email ‘address’ is: abulletfromthepast@gmail.com.  It’s largely for fans of the book, I have been briefed, but I suppose you’re a fan of sorts (i.e. of me – but also hopefully the book).

There was a sad piece on the wireless this morning (Radio 4) about J.D.Salinger.  Whatever you think of the deceased as a writer (ask for my opinion, and I’ll tell you Catcher in the Rye really isn’t all that), he didn’t seem to care much for his fans.  In fact, he employed a female secretary whose express purpose was to reply to said fans with a standard letter outlining how pleased he (Salinger) was at their interest in his work(s).  What a great lie!  (That said, if I get as famous, is this a role you might be interested in?).

Anyhow, despite my ever-so-slightly advancing years, I am beginning to enjoy using the internet.  There’s a lot of information out there, isn’t there?!  My favourite discoveries so far have been the Amazon, the Wikipedia, and how to delete my personal browsing history. 

Checking my email programme now, in fact, I see I have two emails!  One is advertising Viagra (which I am going to delete straight away), but the other seems to be from some poor soul in Africa, says he is stranded with no cash: what to do, Rosalind?! (I do so pity our black brothers and sisters, but perhaps not enough to give any of them access to my bank account, especially since everything over there seems to be so cheap to buy – is that fair enough?).

Well, this was intended as a quick note, and it’s already beginning to run on.  Why? Because I do so love writing to you (in fact, I’d almost be happy with this arrangement for the rest of my days, provided we could meet up fortnightly and copulate). 

Not having any luck with pressing charges, eh?!

(That was a joke).

Yours cheerfully,

Norman.

… a silver surfer.

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

Dear deliberating Rosalind:

My Pontius Pilate, my violet, my spray of lavender - how goes it?

Either you are in the process of attempting (most likely in vain) to initiate legal proceedings against me (and you wouldn't be the first - have settled for 3250 with UKIP rep by the way, though this is not a precedent) ... OR, you are in the midst of an emotional crisis which will end up with you leaving your Gym teacher friend and coming back to Camden (Primrose Hill).

Which could it be!? Don't tell me ... Yet!!

I wonder (a lot) what you did with my last letter.  Perhaps it is now with your attorney? But if you're torn, sew another stitch for me, and allow my love for you to embroider your heart!  (The sticking plasters routinely offered by Gym teachers won't do - they know precious little about first aid, will offer only Lucozade, which would be both disingenuous and utterly missing the point; as well as phenomenally stupid!).

(I can't countenance stupidity, besides half of the time it doesn't know who or what it's looking at).

The weather has been rather nice hasn't it though?  Delightful to see so many people out and enjoying the sunshine on the Heath this Saturday - except litterers and grown men who insist on flying their children's kites irresponsibly (when suddenly a quiet afternoon saunter or family picnic turns into the Battle of Britain!). And hoodies and flashers, of course; I wonder if flashers are more 'active' in the summer months?  It would make sense.

Ah! The British and their fascination with meteorology!  Who else would have invented the Stevenson Screen? (rhetorical question: the English did).  But it is an interesting national character trait isn't it? (I'm being rhetorical again: it really is - the weather).

Say, Monte Carlo has a damned gorgeous climate - if we ever get there, Rosalind, if we ever ...

Indeed , the 'if we ever' somewhat depends on how Two Broken Hearts sells (not forgetting, in the meantime, how two broken hearts mend - you and I; yours and mine).  Navigating the Amazon, I see the book now has a rating of 3 stars out of a possible 5.  We've a 5 star review - from an old prep-school friend named Simkins, even if his Amazon avatar is a little mysterious: 'toastrack11; a 3 star review (with some fair points); and a 1 star review.  It never ceases to astound me how profoundly ignorant some people are!  This particular hatchet-job describes my tone as 'sanctimonious' which I simply don't believe at all, and I know you and (many) others would doubtless ridicule the merest suggestion that I am complacent and self-righteous.  Whatever this galled gadfly thinks, mark my words, when I am on Richard and Judy (or Radio Four) flushed with success, I will be having the last laugh!

Goodness me!  I have just seen the time on my travel-clock; time then I was travelling up to bed.

Yours languidly,

Norman.

... yawning, but hopefully not coming across fawning.

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

Dear Rosalind:

My lover, my hater, my alma mater - are you still angry?

Strange to say (write) I have never before felt such incandescent affecteusement a toi (affection for you). Both your simmering silence, as well as the wrath ringing in my ears following our last exchange has launched me beyond the 'event horizon'; I am, Rosalind, tumbling head over feet into the (apparent) black hole of infatuation.  Will I be crushed into nothingness? Or will you throw me a rope of hope?  The decision is yours! (if I were you, I'd plump for the latter - the rope ...).

All this may come as something of a surprise, but I am a man's man (have I mentioned?) and I positively relish attrition.  Ros, we are two continents (stay with me) on a collision course, and the earth between us has already felt the first tremors of a love that could/will build mountains.  One day little people (our babies) will climb upon our shoulders and even (taking health and safety into account) sit on our summits (our heads).

You know we have one thing going for us in particular: We both acknowledge one another's faults and failings, and now they are out in the open, free to wander off into the sunset (hand in hand?) never to return.  Left behind then will only be the good in us, and though I can speak (write) only for (of) myself, there is plenty to mine - our hearts will intertwine like golden thread and treasure of the rarest kind will be woven (my line).

I confess it has taken some 'Dutch courage' to compose this letter (two cans of Oranjeboom), but don't doubt my sincerity for a nanosecond.  In the past week I have thought about you every waking minute, from the dawn chorus to my bedtime (just before the ITN news at ten).

And be honest with yourself, as I am - your Gym teacher friend could never share his feelings for you (if he has any beyond wanting ownership of your body) in the way I do. (In fact, he's probably not even capable of choosing you a decent postcard from a knocking-shop in Magaluf).

Bearing my breast!

Yours illustriously,

Norman.

... braced for teutonic tectonic collision.

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.

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

Dear recalcitrant Rosalind:

My fresh bagel, my buttered crumpet, my mute trumpet – why no noise?

Apologies my recent missive ended rather abruptly: the postman came with a court summons.  I am beginning to think reason and freedom are wasted on me!  Perhaps it would better serve the human race if I were behind bars!! (It wouldn’t – although I could then write a memoir to rival Mein Kampf, even if world domination is not on my list of ambitions – I am a lover/painter/writer, not a soldier/rapist/hoodie).

Anyhow, joking aside, my life is really not much of a laughing matter just now (unless you have a particularly mean and, or black sense of humour).  I went to see my lawyer the other day (haven’t been since I was bizarrely accused of obstructing an emergency ambulance – how do certain charges get brought I ask!), and he says that I’d better offer Mr. UKIP 3750 as opposed to the original 3000.  What is Mr. UKIP going to do with the extra 750? Build a floating duck house exclusively for wildfowl hatched in the British Isles?!

Apropos, I had put 750 aside to continue the refurbishment of my kitchen (see previous letters – water damage etcetera).

And I should add I was found not guilty of obstructing the ambulance (charges dropped).

Still, it’s quite lonely up here in Primrose Hill without you, not to mention Fritz and Bruno barking their brains out every time the kettle boils.  Found an old computer (a ‘Laptop’ no less) in a hardware store the other day, and thanks to help from someone at Collins have got it running.  And I have internet too!  Can now track reviews of my book on the Amazon (I am told no sales happen on the Twitter).  There’s only one review so far and its quite good (I think): recommends me for the Bulwer-Lytton award (do you know it?).  Wish the reviewer had put a star-rating, however, I am told these are ‘important’.

Otherwise, I was exploring my ancestry this last fortnight (as I mentioned) and have uncovered some interesting, albeit disquieting, family history.  My grandfather it turns out was a conscientious objector which I view as shameful (King Queen and country etcetera), and it’s no wonder my parents never spoke of him; secondly, my great grandfather spent time in Holloway prison (I am yet to find out what for, although there is reference to Molly-coddling!?). 

What about your family history? A tale of drunkenness and mindless, bloody violence no doubt!

Are you for Scottish independence, or against?

Yours ever and always,

Norman.

… not in favour of Scottish independence.

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

Dear Rosalind:

My treacle sponge, my jam roly poly, my one and only – how are you please?

No phone call, no reply to my letters - is your fair hand so badly damaged that you cannot pick up the receiver and dial my number, or indeed scratch out a note on the back of an old envelope (put it in another one and send to me)? 

Things are rather glum here and I need a little BLT TLC … and if you wish me to visit the second hand shop on your behalf (ha?) …

Either way I may be looking for quality seconds any time soon since that wretched UKIP representative has sued me for 3000.  I haven’t seen the full extent of his injury, but I can’t help feeling he is showing more than a little prejudice in his claim on account of my name and possible ancestry: Norman Gerrard (both with potential French lineage). 

Until now I had never traced the roots of my family tree, but in the last day or two have felt obliged, in part to see whether I really am (God forbid) of French origin.  I suppose somewhere along the birth line some poor soul related to me was, though evidence is (typically) scant: the French have never been record keepers, or shown very much in the way of attention to detail (I put this down to the lack of a stabilising force in French society in shape of a Monarchy).

By the way, did you see Prince Philip on the television last weekend?  As usual on damned fine form and made some damned funny remarks about our Indian cousins.  Not sure why he gets such a bad press from the pinko left; mind you socialists tend to lack humour and manners, and money.

But I should stop talk of money – after all I may have to settle out of court with this UKIP fellow and that will put pay to a few extravagances (including, my dear Rosalind, our fated trip to Monte Carlo).

Now, I’ve had a first couple of reviews posted to me by my editor, Charles, for Two Broken Hearts.  One was rather complimentary, describing the book as (in places) ‘gripping’; the other I can only imagine was written by a madman (or madwoman), who evidently had not read the thing.  Who in their right mind would describe my writing as ‘tawdry’, ‘verbose’ and ‘boorish’? (Say something nice here!).  And who would have the gall to summarise any book put out under the esteemed brand of Collins ‘adolescent tripe’?  I mean what on earth does he (or she) mean by ‘adolescent tripe’?  It makes no sense.  Naturally I have replied to this chap (or chappess) with some choice words of my own.

Fight fire with fire is what I say! 

Yours,

Norman.

… your loving flame.

Monday 9 June 2014

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

Dear merciful (?) Rosalind:

My loving flame, my oil lamp, my stamp of approval – how are you now?

I take your silence as a sign that all is not well, and it breaks my heart to imagine.  How can I compensate you? (as an olive branch of sorts, I enclose a signed copy of Two Broken Hearts: A bullet from the past … and you might care to know Fritz has very rapidly been destroyed).

Yes, the whole damned fall-out from the now infamous book launch has been hard to deal with for me (I realise I didn’t get my hand mauled, but frankly, that would have been the least of my problems!).  Those nosey so-and-sos from the Islington Gazette naturally couldn’t resist the temptation to run an article on the affair, as well as rub my trunk in it, and the elephant dung continues to build around me in the form of impending legal action from UKIP. Moreover, I am worried that Collins will not support the book any further following my antics (even though my drinks were spiked).

That said, I did receive a kindly letter of support from Geoffrey (not Jeffrey) Archer, even if he has asked for his endorsement to be withdrawn from any future editions.

So, its all eyes to the skies as the first proper week of sales begins, and was cheered to see my local Waterstone’s with a copy of the book in stock; I asked the pock-marked assistant (acne?), and he said if it sells they will order another (and so on).  I suppose initial sales will be driven by reviews – my editor told me he wasn’t certain we’d get into LRB or TLS, which I thought spineless.  Perhaps I’ll become a best-seller on the Twitter!?

But enough of me?  What about you?  Do get in touch.

My latest thing is oil painting.  Bought myself an easel with part of my advance.  I’ve decided in the last few days, Ros, that if my writing career fails to take off (for reasons I anticipate may prove outside of my control – slovenly publishers, cheap-shot reviewers), I shall paint, and of course, my first inspiration will be (in your absence, and in the absence of Fritz and Bruno) Hampstead Heath (or Primrose Hill - a still life of London Zoo?). 

After all, there are scores of writers who have become artists, artists who have become writers – it’s an intrinsic progression whichever way you look at it.

Meanwhile, hoping dearly for your full recovery!

Penitentially,

Norman.

… from the cell of his (my) heart.

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

Dear Rosalind:

My French hen, my turtle dove, my one truest love – I do hope you are recovering.

To begin, I can only express my sincere regret at what happened last night.  I was (probably) as appalled as you at the whole debacle.  And as for the staff at The Slug! (Well, I suppose they weren’t entirely to blame).

I had never considered in my wildest (and most excoriating) nightmares that Fritz would react to being surrounded by so many people in the manner he did.  I hope the nurses at the casualty ward were kind (I assume they gave you a tetanus jab?).  How is the hand today? If it’s any consolation I am told he practically took a chunk out of the arm of the UKIP representative (in good or bad taste?!). 

Anyway, it was such a crying shame after the evening had began so well.  Fritz is a good boy, but I suppose no one will believe me now, and a second dog of mine will die - to paraphrase Oscar Wilde: to lose one is unfortunate, to lose two simply foolish.

I don’t know whether it is my low tolerance these days (caffeine being my poison of choice), or the frankly malicious tendencies of the cocktail mixers at The Slug (I suspect the latter), but I realise part of the responsibility for Fritz’s outburst should lie with me.  I take it he must have bitten you when I was in the gents being revived by Geoffrey Archer?  Once again, if it’s any consolation, I do half-remember you looking resplendent up to that point (but who was that chap with you? Never got to say ‘hello’ – is he a brother, a cousin perhaps?).

Editor, Charles, left rather early and before the speeches (not that these happened by the way), and in the end the only things I signed on the night were legal disclaimers (alas no books were sold – would you like a free signed copy?). 

Oh goodness, my head is feeling awful this morning!  I am sorry I got so damned tight.  It seems I would have done Fitzgerald proud! We writers, Rosalind, do not travel lightly – we go everywhere and into everything with our eyes, ears and hearts open: wide to receive.

Do call.  I would value the chance to apologise properly.

Yours,

Norman.

… bowed, but unbitten.     

Friday 6 June 2014

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

Dear resplendent Rosalind:

My blackberry, my blueberry, my strawberry tart – how are you?

SO looking forward to seeing you tomorrow (when you get this letter, barring a cock-up from Royal Mail, the launch of Two Broken Hearts will be tomorrow).  I imagine you are getting made-up already!  My panama suit is still at the dry-cleaners, but am about to shuffle out and pick it up; I’ve also bought a fine pair of Gentleman’s loafers for the occasion.

Fritz, bless his canine soul, will be coming along.  He’ll be a good boy - has hardly barked since the whole castration business, and of course, since Bruno’s death (destruction).  I was thinking of dressing him (Fritz) up a little, but don’t wish to emasculate him further by tying a bow around his collar, or something like that.  Perhaps the sight of you, fair Rosalind, might bring the Bull Mastiff out in him again.  I can imagine plenty a male that would go, ‘Woof!’ at your charms and attention (myself included).

Lovely to see the sunshine again, isn’t it?  Thank heavens!  Would look pretty foolish in a panama suit otherwise (its cream coloured, by the way).

Yesterday afternoon, I went and sat up on the Heath (Hampstead), on a bench over-looking the city, and thought how much I love this country!  There is something utterly unique about the English countryside, and you do notice a change when you cross the Severn into Wales (for the worse – I mean its no-mans land between the border and the West Coast).  And while Scotland (I grant you) has its beautiful patches, those wretched midges spoil even these (and I am choosing to ignore all those unsightly wind turbines – the reports of oil running out are, as ever, nothing but scaremongering; though do you know there is even oil in your toothpaste?).

But my mind keeps being drawn back to the book launch.  What an occasion it promises to be!  I have been practising my signature on the back of any old junk mail that plops through the letter box and have arrived at something (I hope you’ll agree when I sign your copy) rather flashy: the key to a celebrity signature is to make it BIG and just about recognisable, and of course, to be sure it can be done in an instant under the flash bulbs, against the full force of a press scrum.

Tomorrow, Ros, I swear will prove (in the long run) worth more than pieces of gold.

Longing to see you – counting down the seconds (literally, it’s a good way to keep any pre-launch nerves at bay).

Yours eventfully,

Norman.

cock clock-watching.   

a one hundred and thirtieth story...'norman's twentieth love letter'

Dear Rosalind:

My pretty baby, my babe, my piglet – so very happy!

So very, very, very, very (very) happy you are going to show your exquisite face at my book launch – you, a bullet from the past! (Two broken hearts?).

Yes, you will not regret it. The Slug is a fabulous joint, and they do some great cocktails (ever had an ‘Old Fashioned’ before? Delicious!).  Moreover, it’s in a super location, on Upper Street no less!  (Very glamorous these days – lots of bright young things with money).

I am sure Geoffrey (Archer) will deliver a fantastic speech.  I suggested he talk on an aspect of the Second World War (the SS, or the German Merchant Navy, for example), but he has final say. And I feel I am the only one qualified enough to talk about my book.  And I do want people to come away from the event feeling as if they have learned something (in fact, if Geoff decides to talk about the Korean War we could be in for a treat: have recently picked up his excellent book, Dark Angel, which goes into some detail!).

How are you going to dress, darling Rosalind?  I am going to be sporting a brand new suit – panama style (there is a danger I will look like a drug baron, I suppose, but I shall refrain from wearing gold chains etcetera).  I think I put on the invitation that guests should come in smart casual; I do hope there are no pink polo shirts / orchard suits in sight mind you!

So, who else shall be there? I sense you wanting to know.  Well, I’ve had several responses in the affirmative thus far (which is gratifying and humbling).  Sadly, Jeffrey Archer is unable to come (still too busy), but I suppose this will avoid any confusion on the night (Geoffrey/Jeffrey are phonetically the same, no?), and Carol Thatcher also replied with a ‘much regret unable’.  Never mind!  Hope remains that one of either the Conservative or UKIP representatives for Highbury East will turn up; they should if they want my vote! (Also I do believe politicians should actively support the Arts).

Lastly, I am sorry for my flippant comment in my last note about Fritz.  I would never have him put down (destroyed), unless I moved abroad (quarantine laws are just too complicated overseas to make the hassle of keeping a dog worthwhile).

Toodle-pip!

Yours elatedly,

Norman.

… flying high.

Thursday 5 June 2014

a one hundred and twenty ninth story...'norman's nineteenth love letter'


Dear Rosalind:

My beloved.

Just a quick note with the VIP (very important person) invite to my book launch.

Would probably make my year if you made it - I can imagine you now dressed in furs, pearls and so on, leaning elegantly on the bar at the Slug with an elaborate cocktail (perhaps with a lotus fruit) in gloved hand, simply looking damn fine!

Please, please, pretty please?

Geoffrey Archer will speak (so glad he agreed - apparently a bit strapped of cash; though I am paying him in sausage rolls), as will I (do you think I should film the occasion?).

Oh! And how could I forget the important bit: I will also be reading an excerpt from Two Broken Hearts (like the title?) and signing copies for all and sundry.

Will write in full again soon.

Fritz needs walking, or destroying - starting to wonder which would be best.

Yours infectiously,

Norman.

... society man and host.

a one hundred and twenty eighth story...'norman's eighteenth love letter'.

Dear Rosalind:

My dear prudence, my beautiful recluse, the noose around my neck – I hope you are OK.

I am hanging on here, Ros.  Hanging on to hear from you – call me, write me, send a pigeon, whatever!

Also, I am tired today: so very tired of trying to do the right thing.  Moral judgements, eh!? 

But already enough of being cryptic! I will leave that to the Ancient Egyptians.

When we were last together, which seems nearly a lifetime ago, I did make you laugh, didn’t I?  (Or so I recall).  Yes, humour is our best survival instinct!  And we did more than just survive that evening, didn’t we?!  How many bottles of wine were consumed? (Rhetorical, of course, but I remember at least two and half! P.S. You don’t owe me a cent).

Your laughter was so pure, gushing like a virginal mountain stream.  I long to hear you laugh once more.  Will you come to the book launch? (Venue tbc).  At worst you could pick up a signed copy of my magnum opus; I assume you’ve read the sample chapter by now (it has been over a month since I sent it), and you’ve seen Collins’ idea of a book cover! Why does everything have to be about sex these days? Or is that rich coming from me? I don’t know. Do I care?

I’ve been thinking, in the meantime, of a dedication.  Here’s what I initially came up with: ‘To Rosalind, a window unto my soul’.  But since Jeffrey Archer’s letter I have change it to this: ‘For Jeffrey Archer, who raised the bar for us all’.  Thoughts welcome!  (Why not just say ‘yes’ or ‘no’ and send a goddamn post-it-note!).

Fritz is sulking this afternoon: could be the heat, could be the new dog food he’s on.  Sometimes I wish dogs could talk – it would assuage my guilt.  Fritz and his mother-me eyes!!  It melts my heart, and yet my heart is hardening (do you hear!?). 

… By the way, this last bit is intended as a joke (but it is hardening a little – my heart that is).

Now, Rosalind, the future will very soon be all around us.  Honey: You know where to find me! (If you can’t remember, here’s my address again: 7 Ainger Rd, Primrose Hill, London, NW3 3AR).

Adieu!

Yours,

Norman.

… wondering.

a one hundred and twenty seventh story...'norman's seventeenth love letter'.

Dear rosy Rosalind:

My toilet water, my scent, my Eau de Cologne – where are you?

Have you sunk into the murky depths without trace? Has one of my letters torpedoed you? Like the Bismarck? (Granted, a poor reference – reading a book on Nazi warships at present).  I dearly hope not, but I realise I have sent seventeen to your four (or is it five?).

Will try not to mention my book in this letter – but please find enclosed a copy of the cover art.  What do you think?  My name does seem to be in rather small proportion to the title, no? 

Best news of the week, meanwhile, was receiving a letter back from none other than Jeffrey Archer (I had asked him for an endorsement for my book).  I was blown away and rather embarrassed at the same time!  Blown away because Archer is one of my literary heroes and one of the literary greats (up there with Hemmingway I always say); embarrassed because I spelled his name Geoffrey instead of Jeffrey (silly me!).  Geoffrey is (apparently and coincidentally) another writer – of military adventures and spy thrillers.  Jeffrey said to look him (Geoffrey) up in lieu – Jeffrey is too busy to endorse my book, but I feel Geoffrey is a sound suggestion and possibly a good bet (will ask Charley). 

Rosalind, if you get the chance when next at your local library (do you have one anymore?), or in the supermarket, or on The Twitter (can you buy and sell there?), be sure to ask or look for Jeffrey’s A Prisoner of Birth.  In a word: quite unbelievably a worthwhile read.  And probably one of two of my favourite books.  The other, you may wonder, is Below the Parapet by Denis Thatcher.

You know, I did so hate (a strong expression I understand) the bile directed toward Margaret Thatcher in the wake of her death – didn’t you?  It not only proved we live in a society where there are plenty of vile, left-winger-cum-protest-singer types around, but that people are so ignorant when it comes to politics.  The Iron Lady made England great again!  And probably did a lot for the rest of the Union too (if not Trade Unions)!  And has victory in the Falkands been forgotten?!

Not by me, at least.

This new lot led by that Farage character seem quite interesting, don’t they?  I like plain speaking, sweetheart, oh yes I do!

Speaking plainly: I love you, Rosalind, and I miss you like a flower misses rain.

Yours magnoliophytically,

Norman.

… in full bloom.

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

Dear dreamy Rosalind:

My vision, my marvel, my picture perfect – how are you keeping?

Please forgive my silence these last few days, I have, it will come as little surprise, been up to my eyeballs in work - when I say work I mean edits, re-edits of my book. 

Charley (my editor) is a scrupulous man, and seems determined to whittle away at my already polished prose to the nth degree.  He is, like me, a man of letters, and (also like me) particularly well-read, but I do find some of his meddling irksome.  If he fancied the book so greatly in the first place, why the need to change so much of it?!  I can cope with structural edits, I suppose, but am not so keen on his sentence reconstruction.  Oh well, I guess my name will still be in lights (so to speak) on the front cover (is that all that matters?).

Yes, the front cover.  I can sense I shall also have next to no come back on this either.  Collins boast a team of so-called ‘excellent’ designers, but will they be able to intuit what the book is about?  I suggested an illustration of a heart being blown apart by a Tommy gun, which I thought dramatic, eye-catching and relevant – Charley, however, won’t comment on whether my recommendation has been heeded.  Perhaps for my second novel I shall hold more sway in these kinds of negotiations! (And get more money for writing it).

Anyway, enough talking shop otherwise I shall bore you senseless (apropos: you do read my letters don’t you Rosalind?).

So then, how much ink is there left in that four-colour biro I gave you?  I hope there is plenty, otherwise it would suggest to me you are writing to someone else; I dread to think (I know you’re not).  Then again, temptation is always but a stone’s throw away (sometimes even closer!).  When I was a boy in my Salad Days, I used to be the one with his nose pressed up against the sweet-shop window after school, goggling at all the goodies, row upon row – rhubarb custard lollipops, sugar mice, Everton mints, toffee fudge.  It’s a shame sweets are so vulgar nowadays. 

Where does temptation lie for you? (You are allowed to be sincere here)…

…Hmm, this has been quite a dull letter, hasn’t it? – Have just read it back.

Thoughts of impending fame can blunt the brain!

Yours expectantly,

Norman.

… on the cusp of success.

Wednesday 4 June 2014

a one hundred and twenty fifth story...'norman's fifteenth love letter'

Dear generous Rosalind:

My future, my past, my everlasting – so glad for your postcard!

I am thrilled you are thrilled/quite pleased about my impending success as a professional author.  Your few scribbled lines did two things to me: first, lay to rest any lingering suspicion I harboured that you had given up on me following that poem; second, made me realise that while you are as beautiful as the Venus de Milo (albeit with limbs intact!), you are also a kind-spirited woman (I didn’t doubt this, but now it is clear).

In short: my heart is FULL.

Even if you were to turn out to be a gold-digger in future, and I could see into a crystal ball that you would indeed relinquish me of my literary millions, I would marry you all the same.  Does that sound mad? Or romantic? Or plain stupid? (hopefully not the last).

Yes, I am bracing myself for a deluge of interview requests – the telephone is on the hook just now, but for how much longer? (You could try calling it by the way).  Who knows? I may even be door-stepped by eager book reviews editors!  I would very much hope the TLS (Times Literary Supplement) and the LRB (London Review of Books) pick it up, and I think an interview on BBC Radio 4 seems fitting.  Perhaps ‘Private Passions’ on Radio 3 – I am told you need to be more of a ‘household name’ to be asked by ‘Desert Island Discs’, whatever that means!

Imagine though if I became a household name, my books (for I fully intend for there to be more than one, especially if the marketing and sales team at Collins pull their fingers out) sitting alongside Archer, Rankin, Titchmarsh, Denis Thatcher in every home in the country – including yours, Rosalind, of course!  (I’d appreciate your comments on that sample chapter I sent you a while back, even though whatever you might say would be, in effect, irrelevant in view of the publishing contract).

Speaking of which … the money for the advance on signature came through the post yesterday (there’ll be more on publication!).  As aforementioned, we won’t be going to Monte Carlo on it, but I may just treat myself to a new pair of shoes (also aforementioned).  I’ve for a long time wanted some proper Gentleman’s loafers: the rich, darling, don’t bother with laces – beneath them, too tiring, potentially heart-attack inducing (the bending down, stretching etcetera).

By the way, the picture on the postcard you sent is of Nice.  Ever been there?  The Boulevard des Anglais was made for you (I know you’re of half-Scots descent, but England, Scotland, same as eggs and oeufs – just a different lingo).

I will stop now.  I can sense the rabid fingers of the press about to dial my number.

Yours all ears,

Norman.

… full of possibilities.

a one hundred and twenty fourth story...'norman's fourteenth love letter'

Dear, demure Rosalind:

My day queen, my sun-down princess, my night star – how I wonder how you are! 

I AM GOING TO BE PUBLISHED!

Simply cannot believe it.

Yes, the phone call that never comes for most mortals (with literary aspirations) came for me!  Are you happy?  I imagine so.  Are you smiling at the news? Laughing with joy?  Really, it is enough to make me go back to church (say a little prayer!), and perhaps to start believing in fate, and in destiny a la Napoleon!

When the editor – fantastic fellow named Charles (aren’t they all?!) – relayed the glorious news, I nearly cart-wheeled down the stairs (my landline is at the top of a small staircase leading to my attic bedroom), and if I had broken my neck in nine places at least I would have died happily.

Thankfully, I survive, and, I suspect, am soon to thrive! Monte Carlo here we come! (Do you want to come?).

The advance, admittedly, is a little on the meagre side (Charles told me this is always the case for a debut author), but the royalty rate – a whole 7% on net revenues – more than makes up for it!

Next stage for me is to think of names to write a testimonial for the book.  Your contributions, Rosalind, are more than welcome (so long as you don’t mind me having executive veto – it will be my name that rises or falls by association remember).  To begin with I’ll approach Geoffrey Archer, I think, perhaps Ian Rankin too, and someone from outside the world of books – I do admire that chap off Classic FM, David Mellor.

Once we (Chuck and I) have finalised details of the book launch I shall send you a golden invitation, with the letters VIP embossed and silver-lined (just to clarify I mean VIP as in ‘very important person’, not ‘visually impaired…’).  As to the venue, what about the Ritz? Or Brown’s Hotel (used to do splendid afternoon tea)? Or, perhaps a more boozy affair at The Slug and Lettuce?

Must dash (Fritz is hungry).

Do look forward to any news (whatsoever).

Yours,

Norman.

… professional writer.

a one hundred and twenty third story...'norman's thirteenth love letter'

Dear Rosalind:

My inspiration, perspiration, validation, and verification - I do hope you are well!

So begins my thirteenth letter to you since last we were together.  And you have sent four in reply (of varying degrees).  Rosalind, I maintain this is a respectable ratio, even a basis for a future relationship.  Reciprocity is key after all … Although, I suppose I have learned a lesson with regard to your feelings on my Chaucerian love poetry – once bitten twice shy.

At last a reply from Collins, would you believe – and in writing! (albeit word processed).  They say they are still getting around to it (‘it’, meaning a decision).  Wow!  Seems as if the editors there are involved in a parley to match that of Brutus and Anthony!  This must mean good news.  If I become famous, Rosalind, I promise to you now I will be as modest and humble as any other Joe Bloggs; there will be precious few extravagances on my part – although I would like a new pair of shoes, a sports car with open top (imagine the fresh Mediterranean breeze in your hair, winding down mountain roads to Monte Carlo!), and perhaps one or two first editions (five or six?).

I am not a preposterous man! Or, a presumptuous one!

Meantime, I wonder if you believe in fate? I can’t decide.  Napoleon Bonaparte certainly did (I’ve been reading some French history books of late), and look what happened to him!  Well, quite a lot of things actually, but in the end he died in exile.  Rosalind, I don’t want to die in exile, and I hope fate (for what it’s worth) does not have this in store for me (us?).  I realise we are all ‘terminal cases’ but there is a point in getting with somebody (say there is!); surely not every single relationship is doomed to end (death and/or separation).

If I sound miserable, I apologise, but remember: miserablists are often the realists in a world where everybody else is madly optimistic!

My second cousin was mad, incidentally – mad as a cow with legs back to front.  He killed himself.  Why? Because he thought everyone else was insane.  Was he right? (He was probably wrong to take LSD in his breakfast tea) But was he right?

O! Ros, do get in touch – missing you dreadfully (Fritz has no interest in philosophy, no interest in literature, or for that matter anything to do with the Arts).

Yours (slightly) sorrowfully,

Norman.

… waking up to life.

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.

Tuesday 3 June 2014

a one hundred and twenty first story...'norman's eleventh love letter'

Dear Rosalind:

My lioness, my tigress, by Bastet (Egyptian cat goddess) I do love a woman’s ire - hell hath no fury!

You have plenty of balls, and you can write words to set blotting paper alight!  And there was I unaware in my last letter I had, in effect, laid a gunpowder trail.

Now, allow me to defend myself!

When I wrote in the poem I sent to you that I wanted to ‘touch your flower’, I was simply employing artistic license (read it again, you’ll see!); please accept that I am not the dirty, rotten pervert you say I am.  But I will admit I lust for you (although, in part, this is because I have precious little in the way of female contact at present – quelle surprise? You might scoff!).  I seem to be two of two things to women: deeply and sensuously attractive, as well as mysteriously repellent.  An old friend used to refer to me as Darcy, in fact.

Thinking about it, Rosalind, you and Jane (Austen) must be congratulated for your shared gumption and outspoken nature(s).  I am more than dimly sensitive to the fact women are on the road to achieving parity with men in nearly every walk of life: fare thee well, and good luck with it!  If you cleaned up your language, my dear, you could become a Bennett sister: individual names escape me – I suppose I am referring to the mannish one who wooed the aforementioned Darcy.  Can you see a parallel developing here?

In other news, I am having my kitchen redecorated just now which is slightly inconvenient.  You may recall I told you how I love to cook, but there’s also nothing wrong with those Marks and Spencer ready meals you know – lots of fresh salads for me these days (I think I’ve lost a stone!).

But you surely don’t want to hear about my weight, height, shoe-size: this letter isn’t intended as a prep-school medical report!

Would you send your child to be privately educated?  I ask in case it ever comes that such a decision has to be made between us.  If it helps I say absolutely ‘yes!’  It’s important for young, impressionable people to mix with a proper sort.  We wouldn’t want a football hooligan or a lap-dancer to have to raise and accept as our own.  Moreover, we’d be ostracised by the dinner party set, where all the best chatter happens.

I suppose I should close with an apology for insinuating I would like to touch your flower: so, sorry!

Fritz sends his love, as do I.

Yours,

Norman.

... still respectfully keen on you.

a one hundred and twentieth story...'norman's tenth love letter'

Dear, delicate Rosalind:

My still out of reach peach, my tangerine dream – how are you today?

I was overjoyed to receive your brief note of thanks for the stationery I sent you, and in blue, black, red and green!  How imaginative!  Although I was slightly perplexed that you chose to return the other four blank postcards – are you about to start using an email programme?  For my part I cannot stand computers.  We are of a different generation aren’t we?  We are Mother Nature’s offspring, not the grubby spawn of technology!

I am, however, the owner of a mobile telephone.  I’m not entirely convinced I know how to use the damned thing, but I do know, Rosalind, how to receive telephone calls.  Phone me and see how rapidly I am able to answer – in the blink of an eye, the bat of an eyelash, at the flap of an ear (?!).  Text messaging, be warned, remains beyond my capability; besides, as a man of letters, I loathe the new phenomenon of text speak (txt spk).  It appears, in this day and age, we are time poor enough not to bother with vowels.

Are you reading anything at the moment?  If not I enclose a sample chapter from my book (read it and imagine yourself an editor at Collins!).  I do hope it isn’t too violent for the female disposition, but I am a man’s man, Rosalind, and therefore I must write like a man.

Should say, however, I am currently at something of a loose end, and consequently drinking too many cups of coffee: can make me feel irritable, so forgive me if I come across (on paper) as a little piquant.  Apparently the guideline daily allowance is five and half cups, I have been on ten – all this emptiness is making me the equivalent of an opium addict!  Still, if it leads me to write like Coleridge, I am fine with becoming thus …

Indeed, before I discovered the literary ingredients of my novel inside me, I did write some fairly decent love poetry.  Here’s a new one about someone special (guess who?!):

English Rose, pink and scented
When were such fine things invented
Did Cupid once roam this earth
Spreading seeds of beauty with all his worth?
For never have I in all my life
Believed in love enough to take a wife
But you, fair Rosalind, have changed everything -
I long to touch your flower, and wear your ring.

J’espere avec impatience pour ta reponse!

Yours amorously,

Norman.

… French O-Level, grade A.

Sunday 1 June 2014

a one hundred and nineteenth story...'norman's ninth love letter'

Dear (but not near enough) Rosalind:

My earth, my wind and fire, my desire - how are you, pray?

Silence is golden to some, but to me it is worth less than tin (is that worth anything nowadays? Perhaps in scrap metal, I don't know).  Are you out of post-it notes? Or without graphite? Or ink? Has my counsel upset you? Are you touch sensitive? (A lot of questions I realise, but I am only trying to comprehend).

In summary: do write.

You are so beautiful, Rosalind, so beautiful I cannot forget your face.  Call me Paris, if you like; you are Helen of Troy (maybe my Achilles Heel to boot) ... excuse the Homeric pun ... That said it is beginning to feel like my courtship of fair Rosalind (you) is worthy (for bravery and commitment) of a chapter in the Iliad (ever read it?); my love letters, songs to a siren.

Just had my next door neighbour knock and complain my washing machine is leaking through her ceiling: I've checked, it isn't, and yet she still kicked up a fuss.  Getting through to people in some situations is nearly impossible - lots of bad comms around!

But what about your comms (communications) Rosalind? At risk of upsetting your further, I humbly suggest there is room for improvement.  But you'll no longer be short of writing materials - I enclose five blank postcards (Waterstones no less), and a four colour biro.  It would be nice to hear from you (I'll refrain from doing the Bruce Forsyth thing).

Anyway, how would you like to go the theatre?  Hampstead has a marvellous group of amateur players, not a single television star in sight, and believe me they are all the better for it.  When my book is published, will I allow the publishers (Collins) television serial rights? Absolutely not!  That would be selling out - how can Miss (?) Rowling countenance her millions? I'd give nearly all of it to charity if I were in her position - the Rotarians most likely.

Yes, the Hampstead players, I sense that you would love them.  Amateur dramatics is under-rated, you know.  Oh but I lecture too much! (Don't take it as an insult to your intelligence - if you were to ask me my favourite bit about you, Rosalind, it would be your mind, though that's not to say I don't appreciate your molecular structure - I did say you were so beautiful earlier in this letter after all, didn't I?).

Ah.  Must go - I've just noticed standing water on the kitchen floor.

Write!

Yours faithfully,

Norman.

... mopping, not moping.