Running Away

Have you watched Trois Couleurs Bleu? It’s about a woman (played by Juliette Binoche) whose husband and children die in a car crash. She runs away, takes on a new identity and does a lot of swimming. There is one scene whereby she runs her knuckles along a brick wall until they bleed. 

Dearest David

10 Downing Street

London

SW1A 2AA

 

 

28th June 2015

David Cameron c/o HM Prison Brixton
Jebb Avenue
Brixton
London
SW2 5XF

My dearest David,

How's things inside old chap? Can't be much worse than Eton. Well, the food can't be any worse anyway. I'm sure I once saw Angry Alfers use the remains of our breakfast porridge to re-grout the urinals and the only thing that made those bricks they had the nerve to call bread loaves bearable was the mountain of butter we could slab on them. Of course, the butter came in handy when the lights went off too ...and  I'm sure you are giving thanks for nature's lube on a nightly basis at the moment. Metrosexuality may have helped you on the outside but perhaps a little less standing on the edge of the rugger field and a little more getting your nose dirty would have been a greater help to you now.

Enough of old times. I know you weren't expecting to hear from me and are wondering why I'm writing to you. It's simply to say I'm sorry for your bad luck old fellow. What a load of tosh! A left wing conspiracy! How else can you explain those emails coming to light right in the middle of your election campaign? A man's emails are his own private business I tell you, even if they do prove that you are a lying, sneaking, law breaker. Which you aren't of course...you are pure victim of Ed Millipede - son of a Brit hater's-  tenacious and malignant urge to punish the great and good of this country.  Yes, those emails did clearly have you admitting to knowing about and even sanctioning  the phone hacking  but really! With Andy Coulson as your ex-media advisor and Rebekah Brooks as your neighbour totty, it was obvious that you knew what was going on. I'm only surprised that you managed to avoid the law's gaze falling on you as long as it did...or did it gaze and you deflect? How did you do that I wonder?

Anyway, I'm sure you understand that I had no choice but to step into the breach. Nothing personal you understand, I would never betray a fellow Etonian and Buller, but us Rights were in disarray and I was persuaded most strongly for the good of the Party, nay, the Country, to accept the True Blue Mantle of Leadership and carry on the good fight! I picked up the baton most reluctantly but David believe me it was with the thought of only of you that I ran like the clappers.

I know it's hard to believe now but two years will pass in a trice and I'm sure that a bright future awaits you when you come out. I'm certain that Piers will be delighted to have you on his show... once he's out of prison too. And of course, the reality TV world is a broken, infamous man's oyster. I won't lie, Made in Chelsea won't touch you with a barge pole now but Celebrity Big Brother will have anyone!

Right must go! Time to polish off the contents off Bucks Palace larder. Before I sign off let me reassure you David that nothing will change with me in power. The newspapers and public are full of optimism and hope. They call me a breath of fresh air, the maverick of politics, the posh toff with the common man's touch. They actually think I'm going to be different, despite what I actually say and do (or perhaps more accurately don't do) . I shit dung balls into their mouths but they insist on tasting sugar cubes. ...what am I to do? Well the show must go on  - 'nil carborundum illegitimi' as dear illiterate Roofie would say. 

All yours,

Boris Johnson PM

Ps. Don't worry about Sam, she's in good hands - mine! Lol!

A Letter of Apology

Dear Mum

I’m sorry I ignored you when you called and called and called,

And about the footprints and the mud around the walls,

I’m sorry ‘bout the snoring when you let me share your bed,

And about the black eye that I gave you with my head.

I’m sorry about the door frame and the damage from my teeth,

And about the Christmas tree and what I left beneath,

I’m sorry that I’m stupid when you need me to be smart,

And that my fishy breath offends and frequently I fa...

I’m sorry I’m a coward when you want me to be brave,

And that I am naughty when important to behave,

I’m sorry I was sleeping when the postman rang the bell,

But when your special friend arrived I raised a merry hell.

I’m sorry about sniffing where it’s considered impolite,

And for welcoming you home from work with a pile of sh…

I try so hard to please you but sometimes I forget

When you’re gone for ages, I think you’ve left, and then I fret.

So I lay prostrate before you and confess to all my sins,

And promise that in future I won’t empty out the bins

I beg that you forgive me with those eyes that you adore

And promise that I will not be a bad dog any more.

Yours, The Dog  

(by Sally)

Dear Harry Styles,

Not sure if you got my last letter telling you about the news. It has been such a busy few months for all I know the reply got lost. Although I see from Chat that you’ve been busy with the tour so it’s understandable that you don’t have time to reply just yet. Graham is doing a lot better. The swelling isn't nearly as bad now but he is still down in the dumps. Between you and I, Harry, he has always been a miserable sod. So what with him and our Petra’s mood swings. Well sometimes you’re the only thing that keeps me sane. Talking of our Petra, she has noticed that I took one of her postcards and the T-shirt. I said I was just tidying up and she isn’t suspicious. She likes so many bands anyway. But me, I’m a one-man woman, Harry. I’d never cheat on you with One Republic or McBusted or any of that rubbish. Why would I when you have everything. That thick glossy hair that makes me want to brush you like one of the dogs. And those smiling eyes that always seem like they’re trying to tell me something. Oh Harry, I wonder about you going out to all those parties. Aren’t you tired? I feel so tired some days it’s hard to believe I’m only 48. Graham says I’ve still got it and calls me his Lolita (it’s only three and a half years but I never let him forget it!), but you know there’s something about modern life that really takes it out of you as I’m sure you’ll know. The surgery is still keeping me out of trouble although doesn’t do much for my stress levels. You get those types that call up and say it’s urgent and it’s just a cough or a cold – and even more who are happy to splutter said germs all over me. There’s so many with that depression as well Harry. All gobbling pills like they’re tic tacs. It can’t go on. Don’t get me wrong. I have my moments, but you’re all the antidepressants I need thank you very much. Sometimes even just the way your lips turn upward at the corners like you’re amused about something I’ve said – maybe my last letter – makes me smile. Our Deborah has just had a hysterectomy. Fibroids. Riddled with them they said. I didn’t envy her – although I must say when she told me the surgeon said it weighed 12lb once they’d took it all out, I did have a little pang. I’m still on the 5:2 Harry. Well I say 5:2. It’s more like 5:7. Oh no hang on. Well thinking about food a lot anyway and picking at it the rest of the time. I try to remind myself that you’d want me to be as svelte as I can, but when there’s chocolate mousse on offer I start thinking that maybe you’d like a woman with curves after all. Like Beyoncé. Only Greek Cypriot and instead of curves more fleshy. A proper woman I suppose. One who has given birth and has the stretchmarks to prove it. Oh who am I kidding Harry. I know I’m too old for you, but there are days when Graham is moaning about this or that and Petra barely looks up from her blasted iPhone and I think I’m so young at heart. So full of life. And yet I can feel the time slipping through my fingertips like pot pourri. Sometimes it doesn’t seem fair that you’re so far away and we haven’t been given the proper chance to get to know each other. I just have this feeling – and I know you do too – that it would be magic between us. We’d run barefoot along the Thames – that bit near the London Eye… (although thinking about it, it might be better if you came to Chigwell, to save Graham getting suspicious. We could go to that lovely new Mexican that has opened up on George Street. Where the chippy used to be. Cath says the chimichangas are out of this world.) Anyway, we’d laugh and sip Mohitos into the early hours like Mondays didn’t exist and you’d chuckle at all the funny little anecdotes I’ve saved up for you and take my hand in yours and look at me like in the Story Of My Life video… All intense and with such hungry longing. Graham is threatening to switch out the bedside lamp so I had better sign off now. Grumpy git. I hope Madrid went well and that you’re looking after yourself. I read that you were seeing that brassy Kardashian girl but I know you never would. It’s all just PR nonsense. Stay strong my love. You’re better than all that.

Your Janet x

PS. I have sprayed the enclosed with Dior J’Adore. I hope you don’t think that’s too forward.

Here's my letter. After a lot of thinking & work, it's taken me just a few seconds to share this with you & I do hope you can appreciate my work. Chris.

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