The sun ain't gonna shine any more
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,