My Dearest Perry,
It's been weeks! Where on earth are you? What are you doing, old girl?
I've not received a single reply— hell, I don't even know if these bloody letters are getting through or not!
Another man might find it incredibly rude of you not to write back. Lucky for you, I'm not that man. No, madam, I happen to be an incredibly understanding individual.
I suppose it comes hand in hand with my level of sophistication...
Evy's actually started telling me I'm too fussy over you, that I need to 'accept that we live three thousand miles apart'.
What a load of tosh, I say. You were my faithful employee for many years, and I see it only right that we keep in contact. Don't go bragging about it, but I'd even class you as a dear friend, work relationship aside.
Not that I'm missing having you scold me constantly for drinking or gambling or getting lost in the middle of Cairo during a revolt. No, no, being free as a bird is truly wonderful. Quite feels like I've ditched a nagging wife!
Anyways. My father's business associate is pressing me for an acceptance to that invitation he coughed up, the one about that get-together in Scotland.
I was going to wait to hear your input on the matter, or at least find out if you were coming to visit in the coming months, but I suppose I should just tell him I'm free...
To tell you the truth, I'm beginning to imagine that my writings to you are being collected by some crazy, one-armed beggar woman who squats in your house while you work. She can't read them, but she likes the smell of the paper and so you never receive the letters at all. They are in her blouse.
Nonetheless, I persist! We Carnahans are like that. We never give up, even if, at the end of the day, our wax-sealed, finely inked efforts are only serving as armpit warmers for homeless ladies.
Do reply?
- Jon