2016

The Call Centre Associate from Croydon.

Not that I have a habit of writing letters and never posting them, but having the habit of never throwing anything away that I have written or received, may I present the first of many unsent letters.

January 9th 1999.
Dear#
Thank you for your splendid letter. Now Christmas has sparkled itself out, we are winter wayward. Skinny dipping in January and whiskers on kittens.......blah blah.
Let me introduce to you a colleague from work called S# and his cashmere lined leather gloves. He's so pissed off because he hasn't had a shag since Princess Diana died, and he told her on more than one occasion not to go to Paris.
S# and I work(ed) in Disconnections on the 23rd floor, of a 23 storey, 1970's concrete hexagonal building. S#, bless him, wishes that this building would collapse, just one floor, and crush the foyer, reception and security desk, wiping out the security guards who point and whisper as he makes his entrance and exit by the revolving doors. (Was this a premonition?)
S# is a mind blowing guy with a mini pot belly and a collection of 20 or more unisex leather belts, some of them woven. Introducing example 1, "My painting and decorating belt," example 2, "My Princess Diana in Angola belt."
S#, with a mouth big enough to swallow an orange when fully open is not a person to double cross, at your peril. For he may WILL your breasts to turn square and go mouldy at the edges or WISH that your entire record collection WARP.

Yours.

S#, If your reading, get in touch.

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