I’ve had an embarrassment of riches come through my door of late, in  an actual correspondence way, rather than a shit in a box way, although the latter would be useful if I had half a mind to compost. Our compost heap is like an abandoned housing development: Utopia impeded then destroyed by fluctuating fortunes. I’m sure it used to be great because somewhere in the dim and distant past our house was lived in by a florist.

 

Bloody heard-hearted woman, took her plants with her and left us, quite literally, with a pile of rubbish too large to move. No idea where she thought we’d dig it in at any rate, we’ve about as much soil as the Sahara. We’re all grass.

http://soundcloud.com/littlecomets/little-comets-jennifer-2

Segues aside, I’ve had a mix-cd with a picture of a naughty pinup on the front (admired by all of my friends, it came in a home made envelope – can you imagine); a letter from a soldier on a proper army issue Bluey (mind out of the gutter, its a serious military form, not a postable sex-act); an apron from my mother; a dress I leant out; the most beautiful book which winged its way from the USA, apparently heading over the Atlantic more than once in its quest for me, and my rail tickets home for Christmas.

The letter-from-a-soldier business is a signal of madness, obviously. My eyes have developed a weird rash around them and I think the two are maybe linked? If you head towards an excess of masculinity the testosterone finds you, threading its way even from the Falkland Islands.

 

In the words of King Lear (whose heady correspondence with soldiers is yet to be unearthed, mercifully) ‘reason not the need’ – running my finger along the edges carefully – the letters open the way a perforated payslip does, torturous and out-of-step with the logic of the envelope- was terrifically exciting. I imagine this will pass. I booked myself into a lepidoptery class as well, so if I haven’t become an army wife soon I will be living in a hovel filled with butterfly corpses which mean I daren’t put the heating on.

 

Worried I’ve been getting comfortable – I need to steal away and shake things up and make myself nervous again. Wanderlust or something similar.

 

I feel a little bit in limbo, devoid of a mentor, which I think you are supposed to have.

 

Doesn’t everyone who gets anywhere have a patron of some sort? I am missing mine, and worry about this ceaselessly. I worry about most things ceaselessly, but perhaps forging ahead yourself is also a legitimate way to travel? If anyone knows anyone who needs anyone to look after (phew) or guide, or show new things and places to in London, let me know? This is serious, I feel so shy to step into things, but then that is half the problem – the people who can help are poised out there in the dark, waiting, but I need the vigour and determination to swim to them.

 

Additionally and unrelated *(although I don’t know where my local post-office so that might be an adventure) I need to send some post. I’m too long overdue post to Iceland, Morocco, Ireland, Paris. Hopelessly remiss. So this weekend, I’m parcelling things up to post out. Would you like something? I would love to send you a letter.

 

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