LIFE’S A GAS.
No, it is, honest.
‘Revolution 9’ – The Beatles
About 87 degrees or something diabolical. Not what you want when you’re loading lorries by hand with no shade and the ground swirls its oily dust into the air about you. Next year, if anyone says to me ‘Didn’t we have lovely weather last July?’ I shall say ‘No. We did not.’ To agree that this weather is ‘lovely’ would be very hypocritical of me. I want some cloud and a breeze. That’s all I ask.
No jobs in today’s local paper. Fuck.
But from Miranda, I have something to make me happy…
She wrote me a letter on Sunday. She calls me ‘dearest Ritcherd’ again, and thanks me for my letter which reached her at 7am on Saturday. She says 7am is a most ungodly hour, but she was up because the night before they’d all had a barbecue and it was still going on! She read it but it didn’t make any sense (less than usual, in fact) because she was ‘extremely stoned’. She says the barbecue was full of IBM people but actually turned out to be fun. As she writes, she’s listening to Scritti Politti and feeling nostalgic. This was because she’d had Radio 1 on at work and they’d played all the number ones of 1984 which left her feeling melancholic. Her Saturday night at work was awful because the restaurant owners are skateboarding fans and they invited all the competitors of a big competition to dine there (about 200 people crammed into 50 person capacity!). She never wants to see a skateboard again.
She attempts to recall our ‘big sex scene’ from last year as she likens my life to that of a novel, noting how decadent our generation is. She notes that 100 years ago she probably wouldn’t even have known what alcohol was, never mind the dope she’s been smoking.
She asks about my employment situation, noting that she needs more work herself. Her waitressing job only really pays for the rent.
She says we should continue writing and getting to know each other again, then build up to a phone conversation.
At this point, she’s listening to ‘Purple Rain’ by Prince, which makes her even more sad and nostalgic: ‘it seems so long ago since I was fifteen’. She says she’s been trying to remember what film we saw when we went on our first date.
I asked her for a photograph in my last letter. She says she doesn’t want to send me one because she has no recent ones and also because she recently cut her hair extremely short just to spite Mark who was being a bastard and loves long hair. She regrets it and feels stupid that she did that to herself just to annoy someone. She hates it at the moment (too long to use gel and too short to tie up or backcomb). She asks me what my hair’s like and if it’s still short (like last summer). She also asks if I still dress in a goth way. She says it’s so damned hot she’s living in shorts and vests, but hopes to get the velvet and lace out again when winter comes.
She says she’d like to see me this weekend when she comes up to Wisbech to borrow her mum’s car. She suggests we have lunch on Saturday. Her friend Becky might be coming with her, though.
She then asks me to write back soon and signs off with lots of love and three kisses.
She adds a postscript on Tuesday saying she’s enclosed a photo of herself. She says it’s pretty awful. She also says that Becky isn’t coming up to Wisbech with her so maybe we will meet. She says she’ll give me a ring.
Then follows another postscript in which she decides not to enclose the photo as it’s gross.
Shame about the photograph, Miranda. I’m glad Becky’s not coming, but I hope we can meet for more than just lunch.
I love you, you know, Miranda. Ring me soon.
‘Birthday’ – The Beatles
Well, Lilith rang tonight. She loves me, misses me and wants to see me. It was a bloody good conversation for a change, too.
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Next time: ‘It’s Only Rock ‘n’ Roll…’