The sun ain't gonna shine any more
The first thing Pop did when he got home after working away a couple of weeks ago, apparently, was fire up his PC and run his eyes over the contents of this blog in a feverish search for written evidence of how much I had missed him. Given that answer came there none, he settled down for a good sulk and determined that I would never hear the end of it. Pop is stewarding at a music festival this weekend. He left yesterday, and won't be home until Monday. Unwilling to be at the receiving end of another such sulk, I present the following sincere and heartfelt missive.
Darling Pop,
It is with some difficulty that I have managed to drag myself out of bed to compose this letter to you. I am so downcast by your absence that I am really fit for nothing more strenuous than weeping quietly into a handkerchief whilst gazing mournfully at the photograph of you wearing my MBE hat which I have printed out specially so that I can stroke your beloved face.
It seems only fitting that I should clothe myself in black garments for the duration of this period of misery. Bright colours seem completely out of place when my sun has been obscured by the dark clouds of a life without access to your cheering and inspirational words. I am considering making little black armbands for Caspar and Bertie as they, too, feel your loss deeply. Neither has been heard to purr since they learned of your departure.
We are, indeed, a quiet and miserable household at present. The days of your absence stretch out before me to an intolerable length, and I am at a loss to know how I will fill the waking hours until your most welcome and longed-for return. Everything is on hold until that glorious moment when I am once again treated to the delights of hearing your deep, cultured and masculine voice speaking my name.
If it were only your absence that I had to bear, I think I might win through. But there is the additional worry about your well-being, given that you will be sleeping in a tent at this time when the weather is far from wholly clement. I can only pray that you have had the foresight to pack warm clothing and to invest in a sleeping bag of the highest quality. I am not at all convinced that it is sensible for a man of your age and predisposition to catching plague to spend his nights under canvas. If I manage to catch so much as an hour's sleep myself until I know that you are safely back within your own bricks and mortar, it will be a miracle.
No-one can make me laugh while I am missing you so desperately, as Boogaloo Dude and Melbamae will confirm after the unwontedly sober conversations they had with me earlier today. Both were shocked by my lassitude and my frequent tears, and did everything in their power to cheer me. But their best efforts were to no avail. I remain inconsolable.
I have even tried to appear pale and wan, but have discovered that I am constitutionally incapable of such a feat despite my best efforts. I console myself with the knowledge that I am pale and wan underneath.
Oh lucky festival-goers who have the good fortune to receive a word or a smile from you in your undoubtedly-sexy fluorescent yellow steward's tabard! What wouldn't I give to be in their shoes? Curse this frail, crippled body in which I am imprisoned!!
On the other hand...
If the phone rings and I hear my father's voice, I will know that it actually is my father and not you freaking me out with your uncannily-accurate impersonation of my father. (The accuracy of which impersonation is all the more uncanny for the fact that you have never actually heard him speak.)
I can eat garlic, chillies, broccoli and avocado with impunity and without having to endure your theatrical shudderings at the thought of what I have just consumed. I have already promised faithfully that I will lay off the garlic when I see you. You don't live close enough to me to smell it.
I can settle down for an afternoon nap secure in the knowledge that I will not be woken up by text messages from you asking whether I am awake.
Neither will I have to put up with you asking me at 6.05 pm whether I have taken my meds yet when you have been speaking to me since 5.45 and have thus caused me to miss my 6pm meds appointment.
I will be able to settle down to watch this evening's episode of House secure in the knowledge that you will, just this once, not be phoning me moments before the true nature of the hideous medical complaint is revealed for no other reason than that you can't stand the fact that I worship the ground Hugh Laurie limps on.
Your adoring and affectionate friend,
F xxx
Darling Pop,
It is with some difficulty that I have managed to drag myself out of bed to compose this letter to you. I am so downcast by your absence that I am really fit for nothing more strenuous than weeping quietly into a handkerchief whilst gazing mournfully at the photograph of you wearing my MBE hat which I have printed out specially so that I can stroke your beloved face.
It seems only fitting that I should clothe myself in black garments for the duration of this period of misery. Bright colours seem completely out of place when my sun has been obscured by the dark clouds of a life without access to your cheering and inspirational words. I am considering making little black armbands for Caspar and Bertie as they, too, feel your loss deeply. Neither has been heard to purr since they learned of your departure.
We are, indeed, a quiet and miserable household at present. The days of your absence stretch out before me to an intolerable length, and I am at a loss to know how I will fill the waking hours until your most welcome and longed-for return. Everything is on hold until that glorious moment when I am once again treated to the delights of hearing your deep, cultured and masculine voice speaking my name.
If it were only your absence that I had to bear, I think I might win through. But there is the additional worry about your well-being, given that you will be sleeping in a tent at this time when the weather is far from wholly clement. I can only pray that you have had the foresight to pack warm clothing and to invest in a sleeping bag of the highest quality. I am not at all convinced that it is sensible for a man of your age and predisposition to catching plague to spend his nights under canvas. If I manage to catch so much as an hour's sleep myself until I know that you are safely back within your own bricks and mortar, it will be a miracle.
No-one can make me laugh while I am missing you so desperately, as Boogaloo Dude and Melbamae will confirm after the unwontedly sober conversations they had with me earlier today. Both were shocked by my lassitude and my frequent tears, and did everything in their power to cheer me. But their best efforts were to no avail. I remain inconsolable.
I have even tried to appear pale and wan, but have discovered that I am constitutionally incapable of such a feat despite my best efforts. I console myself with the knowledge that I am pale and wan underneath.
Oh lucky festival-goers who have the good fortune to receive a word or a smile from you in your undoubtedly-sexy fluorescent yellow steward's tabard! What wouldn't I give to be in their shoes? Curse this frail, crippled body in which I am imprisoned!!
On the other hand...
If the phone rings and I hear my father's voice, I will know that it actually is my father and not you freaking me out with your uncannily-accurate impersonation of my father. (The accuracy of which impersonation is all the more uncanny for the fact that you have never actually heard him speak.)
I can eat garlic, chillies, broccoli and avocado with impunity and without having to endure your theatrical shudderings at the thought of what I have just consumed. I have already promised faithfully that I will lay off the garlic when I see you. You don't live close enough to me to smell it.
I can settle down for an afternoon nap secure in the knowledge that I will not be woken up by text messages from you asking whether I am awake.
Neither will I have to put up with you asking me at 6.05 pm whether I have taken my meds yet when you have been speaking to me since 5.45 and have thus caused me to miss my 6pm meds appointment.
I will be able to settle down to watch this evening's episode of House secure in the knowledge that you will, just this once, not be phoning me moments before the true nature of the hideous medical complaint is revealed for no other reason than that you can't stand the fact that I worship the ground Hugh Laurie limps on.
Your adoring and affectionate friend,
F xxx
posted by
Lady Bracknell | Thursday, May 31, 2007
6 Comments:
Poor Editor. I do hope you manage to pull yourself through this trying time. I would offer you a hug, were my arms long enough to reach across the edge of the continent and quite a bit of ocean. Alas, they are not. (Also, I'm unsure as to whether you would appreciate a hug from someone you've never actually met. If not, pretend I said 'a sorrowful glance of sympathy, mingled with admiration for your courage in the face of heartbreaking lonliness' up there, and ignore any comments on the length of my arms)
So please accept this link to a picture of my sister's cat and a plush octopus in place of a hug: http://img.photobucket.com/albums/v504/parilla/octopus.jpg
(Lookit her silvery little nose! Lookitlookitlookit! Eeeeee!)
Oh, well, thank you. I must say she's a very comforting sort of kitty in my time of sadness.
I could almost raise a smile... ;-)
I recently discovered your blog and have been catching up with old posts. I've just now been reading your Feb 12 '06 post "shocked to the core" and wished to enquire whether you still have difficulty with static electricity in the particular building in question (or any other location)?
I have a friend who has had a somewhat similar problem, particularly in the winter, when pushing the elevator button in her apartment building. Our theory is that her clothes rubbing against the fabric and wheels of her wheelchair causes the static build up (we tested this with me trying out her chair, and I got the static charge just like she did). She eventually solved the problem by holding some other object in her hand (whether a key, a pen, or ANYthing to insulate the button from her finger). Pretty much as described on the web site you looked at.
In your case: have you considered using your beautiful stick to push the elevator button? (or should that be lift button?) I don't know if the stick would be as effective in shielding you when you go through the turnstile thing in the first place, but at least for the lift ...
(In case it isn't clear, I don't mean to imply holding it at the hook end and pushing the button with the far end of the stick. I was thinking more among the lines of holding the part of the curve where it starts to curve down, then sort of leaning the body or trunk of the cane against the button. Or the other way around, if that seems better. I don't know if I'm making sense here.)
Andrea
http://reunifygally.wordpress.com
May I ask that next time Pop goes on an excursion like this, we are forwarned and can therefore buy shares in Kleenex?
Yes Pop I can vouch for the anguish the editor was enduring in your absence, as I unwittingly rang her. I did not know at the time of course, she was in deep mourning.
It is quite true during our conversation she was doubled over in fits of, um.... agony! Honestly there were audible tears of hmmm, despair! streaming down her cheeks when I told her of Mr. Melbamae's most recent antics. The poor woman, she quite literally howled with excruciating gleefulness...no, no, I mean glumness! during most of our conversation.
I pray thee Mister Pop, please return forthwith, so our esteemed Editor and her feline companions may regain their former emotional robustness. To delay would be unfairly cruel.
I too can vouch that the Editor has been inconsolable during the last few days.
Certainly nothing I could say or do elicited even the faintest glimmer of mirth.
Pop is indeed gulity of the worst calliousness.
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