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.