Thursday, 3 September 2009


I have give the horrible task of throwing away letters to Charlie, my son. I would keep everything, and everything is important. Thousands came downstairs for me to check, and although I have no memory for anything useful, I recognized my friends hand writing immediately. Its funny we used to work so hard at perfecting a beautiful hand and I used to be congratulated on my writing. Nowadays I pick up a fountain pen and hardly recognize the scrawl I produce. I think I last wrote a letter two years ago. It is now the age of email and I am as prolific now as I was then. The only thing is the filing system is less messy and my heart doesn't jump as I pick up an old scented billet doux. I said to Charlie I would keep everything until I died, and that he would only have to do it then, so he quickly rushed upstairs and has emptied three trunks full of memories. Oh I feel so clean. The funny thing is that people were so good at writing, my friends told me everything in these letters. The gossip was hardly breath taking, it was all so banal. I was hardly the rebel I remember being. I wrote about flowers, food and horses. Those were the days. There was my ex with hair, and my ex with no hair, he gets better looking every day. There was my previous ex too, letters regarding his stag night. Newspaper articles, my Mother kissing me when I was a baby. Diaries full of writing. recipes, curtains bills, and bank statements all were thrown out. There were notes telling me I was a brilliant cook, good god, now that is a lie.

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