It is once again, according to the calendar in your woman's world, what is called a weekend. Such times, as you know, are most favorable for exploiting your woman's weaknesses -- which, fortunately for you, she lays bare at such opportunities as these.
One of these weaknesses is her recently acquired fondness for alcoholic drink. When your woman dwelt in the Enemy's kingdom, she came into contact with some of what was undeniably the finest wine that ever existed. Of course, with the Enemy so close by, she flattered herself that she did not hear when you told her how smoothly it flowed over her tongue, and the delicateness of the taste and the smell. Of course, she had not this railway accident to grate so upon her heart, nor what the Enemy called "being too old to remain in that place." As she would do anything to take the memory of such things from her mind, her going out to get inebriated, at what she calls "parties," is most helpful. This is especially true when your woman has drunk enough of her own world's drink that she cannot see -- praise to Our Father Below for it -- that it was none but the Enemy Himself who infused her heart with the desire to return to Him and to His country. Never mind that he said she was too old to return there -- you have her clawing to get back, in your own sweetly debased way.
There is also the small matter of something whose origin always pains me to remember, coming as it does from the Enemy. Even so, we have always prided ourselves -- and rightly too, I must say -- to mold it into our image. I am speaking, of course, of that which is called Sex. Only after the Enemy sent her away from that awful place did your woman get a taste for such pleasures as the Enemy could design, and your devoted efforts helped to cultivate it. It nauseates me to know that Our Father Below cannot take the credit for such things as the feel of skin upon skin, the way a good stout kiss can make those getting and receiving it feel as though they are flying, and the waves of purest bliss that can only come from the release found in the physical union between a man and a woman. Your own woman recently discovered these pleasures on her own, shortly before losing her family; now that they are dead, she finds that what passes for solace in the great rush of emotion and adrenalin that sex can provide.
Amid all the drunken trollop you have so wonderfully made of her, your success is not complete. After all, she has not completely forgotten that she was, in fact, a Queen. At this point I must ignore the rising of my gorge and tell you the name of that place, if you do not know it. If you do know it, buck up and stand as strong as you can.
Narnia. That is the name of that wretched dump. The place of which the Enemy said, "Once a King or Queen, always a King or Queen." This is not to say that he was lying, but the complete phrase was, "Once a King or Queen in Narnia, always a King or Queen in Narnia." Your woman must never be allowed to forget that she is no longer in Narnia. Therefore, she is -- for the moment, anyway -- no longer a Queen.
However large a hammer you may need, let me know. I will be beyond glad and privileged to supply you with the required instrument for pounding that through her head. Please write soon to inform me of the successes I so eagerly anticipate.
Your affectionate mother,
Slumtrimpet