Strictly Ballroom atop the WTC
My dear T,
Greetings old thing, and so here is my new method of communication. The idea is that rather than sending messages via email people take a piece of paper and actually write their message on it using a vintage fountain pen or crayon, and then send the actual piece of paper to whoever it is with whom they are communicating. You'll scarcely believe it but I'm told there are chaps in uniform all over the world who come round to your house and hand you these so-called letters for a small fee, payable in advance. It's a novel idea I know, but stranger things have happened.
I've had rather a whiz bang time of late, as I mentioned a dear old friend came to visit recently and we whisked her off to the Hamptons for the weekend, unfortunately she brought some English rain with her but that didn't dampen our enthusiasm for unruly behaviour in exclusive restaurants, I don't think our visit will be soon forgotten, oh no. Upon our return to the city we continued the liver abuse with the help of assorted locals and a rather unusual gathering at the top of the World Trade Centre, think Strictly Ballroom meets La Cage aux Folles meets Boys In The Hood, all most enlightening.
The last few days have been taken up with my getting the chance to use all the old material on a new and unsuspecting audience. A friend was in town touting her wears at a Gift Fair and I offered to help her out from time to time. This I did and discovered a whole battalion of English folk who were also doing the aforementioned show. They were of the best kind and I made several very pleasant acquaintances.
The whole thing culminated in a dinner at The Odeon at which I was able to dazzle the assembled masses with nothing more than a few lines from my back catalogue, most gratifying for a young whillywha like myself. All the more so when one of two rather handsome, ridiculously tall, pleasantly curvaceous, and naturally blonde young women (henceforth to be known as the Twin Towers) mentioned that her best friend is PA to one of London's most powerful literary agents. As a result of the evening she has made the necessary introductions and I am sending a manuscript next week. Les fingers sont crossed, non?
While I think of it...Toolbelts...more in the wife's line than mine if one is proposing to actually use the tools, but as a fashion statement I'm right there with you old love. Though you'll want to keep it quiet in the club, some chaps don't like to drink with below stairs.
Would I be right in assuming that though you wear the tool belt the lovely A is the first to break a nail when required? You do have your appearance to take care of after all, limp-wristed and feckless gestures of aesthetic disapproval are so much less convincing with dirt under you fingernails, I'm told.
And what of life in our dear old Metropolis? I have just finished reading a book which featured various haunts in Soho and I confess to pangs of longing for the place. When I do get back over I shall pack the little woman off to the shops and you and I will break bread in Le Gavroche, followed by copious drinking in whichever members club you don't mind getting thrown out of. I realise liquid lunches are no longer actively encouraged in your industry but perhaps you can use the excuse of Christmas to slip one in, missus. Give in gracefully or the Polaroids go on the net, know what I mean?
Forgive the lack of flow in this missive; I am currently waiting for the kitchen appliance tradesman and I am planning on giving him the thrashing of a lifetime for his shoddy workmanship and general lack of feudal respect. Once he has felt the sting of my horsewhip I'll have my true satisfaction and only then send him on his miserable way, as you can imagine I am anxious to get started on him, though his tardiness will give added vigour to my strokes.
And so on the subject of beating the help I shall close for the nonce. My fondest to you and yours from me and mine.
Until the next time fellow Old Bournemouthian.
S