Me to me
The reason your head hurts is because it is 3pm and all you have eaten is a large number of 50% off cheap chocolate balls. They aren't getting better with each fistful. You are in a chocolate induced sweat and incubating a heinous migraine. Go and get some food. Proper food with green bits.
(ps - take the stairs you lazy fucker. It's only 2 floors and that old "ow, my knee" excuse is wearing very very thin)
Me to CFO
Thank you for informing me that whenever you find money "lying around" the house as you put it, you take it. I now feel able to take said money back from where it is "lying around" in your wallet without compunction. Please take this letter as giving due notice that I will do so from now on without further warning.
(ps - I have not done anything about your parking ticket)
(pps - I still haven't cancelled the internet subscription)
(ppps - the dog is not living outside on Mondays and Tuesdays. Ever.)
Me to Observer Woman magazine
Dear Observer Woman,
Being at heart, a deeply shallow person with a love of the shinier, more expensive things in life, I have not thus far had a particular problem with your brand of breathless fashion and beauty journalism, interspersed with insights into Polly Vernon's life of thinness and cocktail drinking. I can cope with the American Psycho style brand name dropping interviews. I can cope with Kathryn Flett's sex life, and Lily Allen's views on men. Well, sort of. I confess that I did rather love Observer Woman Makes me Spit, but it did not stop me looking forward to Observer Woman Sundays. The Food thing has that horrible sanctimonious John Biffa trying to make us eat quinoa and bitter herbs, Sport is beyond the pale, Music is too blokey and anorak oriented.
This week however, your pieces on why women with children are ghastly, boring, stupid and unfabulous were quite uncomfortable reading. The tone of both articles was glib, vituperative and tacky. Yes. Parents can be boring and self-obsessed and smug. They should not assume that anyone wants to hear about the minutiae of their children's lives. I get that. But these were horrible pieces of journalism. If you have truly met many women who are so singlemindedly determined to talk about their children to the exclusion of all else, who are not interested in "books, or Michelle Obama or Mad Men", then I wonder quite where you hang out. Seriously, girls, you might want to avoid Baby Gap and Tumbletots. The cocktails are lousy anyway.
I am conflicted. Mainly I want everyone to get along and be nice to each other. I used to go to the Woodcraft Folk. I went to Quaker School. I am a peace loving individual. I think people - women especially, for crying out loud - should damn well respect each other's choices. I may be a lentil knitting hippie -it is, after all, my birthright. But I believe there are plenty of battles still to be fought for women, and not - for fuck's SAKE - with each other. Respect. Empathy. Consideration. These things are important on every 'side' (There should not be SIDES! It says so in the Woodcraft Folk handbook! The warring villages must make friends or they will never rebuild the bridge!).
Part of me thinks I should just ignore it; not rise to the bait and give you more publicity, since this, presumably, was the whole point of the piece. I am waiting for Zoe Williams to respond at length, given she gets the whole back page of the tabloid section of the Guardian every week to tell us about the minutiae of raising her infant son. I am sure Alpha Mummy and its army of rabid commenters will be weighing in to fan the flames any minute. This one is bound to run and run. Why encourage it? Another part of me is worried that the responses your piece will bring will just confirm your worst fears - that parents are humourless monomaniacs with a deluded sense of entitlement.
But part of me also wants to snap your legs like twiglets, Vernon, for allowing this provocative dross to go out. You are the editor. I blame you. And I'm not alone. You better run fast in your £1000 Balmain jeans because every woman with a buggy in central London has read your piece by now (Yes! They read! Sometimes whole books without pictures!), and they are all gunning for your ankles.
Brain dead of Brussels
Me to Liberty
My dearest, darling purple one,
Please stop sending me emails and letters suggesting I check out your new online service. Please, when you send me my new store card, do not titillate me with descriptions of the Hall of Shoes, new deliveries of Anglomania dresses and vintage treats in the jewellery department.
I AM NOT MADE OF STONE.
You know I love you. But right now, we cannot be together. We must be strong, both of us. One day, we shall be joyfully reunited but until that day I must not allow myself to weaken and listen to your siren song.
Yours always, broken heartedly,