Friday, December 28, 2007

a letter to esther

Marra, I don't care what time it says I published this, it's now half past four in the morning and I just got in from work. It was a very long shift indeed - somebody called me a 'titbag' and then was sick in the garden (deliberately, I think).

I'm addressing this blog post to my marra for two reasons. One, it would be pretty damn rude to call you at this hour - although you're probably awake and doing something horrendous involving vino and Frankie - and two, my phone has been cut off by Orange because I haven't paid my bill. An overreaction on their part, I feel, and definitely not worth being charged to call them and pay the bill. Stalemate continues. It's all very complex.

Everything is very, upsettingly about money. I wish it wasn't, because it's such a sad way to look at life, but money is the reason I cannot sort out my phone, or get the train, or go for drinks. Money is the reason that I have to work until four in the morning just to not have enough money to do the things that would make the job worthwhile. I fucking hate it, so fucking much it makes me swear.

Also, I thought it would be fun to write you a blog letter. Sort of creepy, because it's not from me as such, it's by me. This could well be fiction. Except it's not. I'm pretty tired.

On the plus, Santa brought me a hench bottle of Bombay Sapphire for Christmas. Tonk, if you like. It's massive; it's calling to me.

I love you very very much and missing you makes me sad. Royal Holloway feels fucking years ago, I can't even tell you how different everything is. It's like it never happened and I've been in this shit job the whole time; I've always been a hard-ass bar bitch and I just happened to take some drugs one night in Cambers that made me dream that I sat in a kitchen with a souped-up Soho mincer and made ransom-note poetry. "Biting in love/ in French/ in death/ in England."

I am still a pikey, but with less of a knowledge of scripture. I want to go and sit underneath Queen Victoria on the North quad and drink wine and talk about how uncanny things are. That was one of the best nights I've ever had.

Love,
FUF

1 Comments:

At 7:13 pm , Anonymous Esther Yes LOVES FUF said...

"Royal Holloway feels fucking years ago, I can't even tell you how different everything is. It's like it never happened and I've been in this shit job the whole time; I've always been a hard-ass bar bitch and I just happened to take some drugs one night in Cambers that made me dream that I sat in a kitchen with a souped-up Soho mincer and made ransom-note poetry. "Biting in love/ in French/ in death/ in England..."

we were children

i'll call you very soon

:) <--- teary smile

e x

 

Post a Comment

Subscribe to Post Comments [Atom]

<< Home