Is It A Cape...

Dear Assorted Super Heroes And Villains,

Where do you get your outfits from? Is there a special shop? Or are your most powerful gifts super creativity, darning and embroidery a bomb wouldn't shift? I was just wondering...

Yours sincerely,

Omar...

Dear Stylish Girl On The Street,

I love it. I love that on a day when the sun shone, the air was warm and the sky was blue, you wore your hat regardless. I love that your bonnet, whilst obviously old, was new to you and such was your love for it, nothing as simple as a warm sunny day would stop you giving it your best Lara a la Dr. Zhivago.

I salute you, as sometimes, not even seasons, can come between a girl and her pom poms...

Yours sincerely,

Billie Jean...

Dear Train,

I had to ride backwards today. I hate riding backwards, it feels like the world's longest moonwalk...

Yours sincerely,

Attention...

Dear Fool,

Here's the thing. You know women talk, we like to talk a lot. What you might not know, is that this forms friendships, beyond what you can imagine. We get close, very close, we look out for each other and contrary to what the media might try to have us all believe, as they pit the fairer sex against each other on a daily basis, we are loyal to each other, to the very bones. Don't even call it a sisterhood, it's offensive, it's friendship, in all it's laughter, hard times, great times, snots and tears, mischievous glory.

So, when you go behind our backs and try to undermine the very heart of it, know that it went from your lips, to her ear, to her mouth, to her telephone, to my ear. We are not some fucking interchangeable pieces of a jigsaw, in your mission to get laid. We do not think dumping all over your best friend, who has supported and loved you through your own battles, to get what you want is attractive. In fact package the outside however you like, your core is ugly.

You say you want to change, you say a lot of things, I just wish you meant one of them...

Yours sincerely,

Paging Gene Kelly...

Dear Constant, Incessant, Relentless, Rain,

I've got Point Break and Blue Hawaii on rotation. I've taken the legs off the ironing board, filled the bath and installed a small propeller by the taps, not to mention the massive halogen bulb I've placed above the sink. I've turned the heating up to 90 and have stolen my housemates board shorts, which, I am currently dismantling on my sewing machine, as mid calf is sooo not a good length, at least on shorts, on Joan? Well on Joan, it is of course, perfection.

I have taught myself the Hoola, eaten ice cream whilst holding an umbrella, whispered in my own ear, (no small achievement) this is just a wee shower in the face of clouds that are milliseconds from dropping locusts and toads, to complete the apocalypse. I have returned a mere two weeks and I can feel my spirit withering, like the over watered plants in the back garden. This feels like the worlds longest game of hide and seek between the Sun and I. I have to be honest Rain, I'm beginning to suspect foul play on your part, no need to call Jessica Fletcher just yet, at least not before I speak to Colonel Mustard. Did I mention I have Point Break and Blue Hawaii on rotation? Only Swayze and Elvis combined, can save me now...

Yours sincerely,

Tea For Two...

Dear Blog,

I'd used the word neglected, but I don't want to downplay the situation. This magical Summer has been one of my best, two months traveling and working my way around the North American continent, left my fingers itching for nothing but a cold beer at the end of the day. The result? No words have come from these fingers in a long time and they are taking tentative steps in an effort to make it up to my keyboard. Sometimes, it's not enough to write about life, sometimes, you have to go live it, in order to build up a stash to draw on.

My fingers have been humming Olivia Newton John's "Physical", in an attempt to get themselves moving again. My hands like to think they sound not unlike Fred And Ginger, tapping away on the keys, but my fingers wanna get physical, they aren't quite as sophisticated, and so another battle begins.

Now, where did I leave my legwarmers? I feel a work out coming on...

Yours sincerely,

I'm Passed Out In Your Garden...

Dear Kings of Leon,

You should thank the pigeons really. You should praise them for coming to the rescue. I had the misfortune of seeing you a couple of days later and I wish the pigeons had been the homing type. I wish they'd swept in and made things a little more interesting. Your sex is on fire? I beg to differ little ladies.

When did the dirty, skinny, sexy boys, singing about losing their erections (I long for the days of "soft", lyrically speaking...), turn into Bryan Adams? Perhaps the pigeon poo weakened you, for it seems you no longer have the strength to open a bottle of water, thank the lord a technician was on hand to help out. You are two steps away from a full on Mariah Carey.

I don't even like pigeons, but these days, I prefer them to Kings...

Yours sincerely,