I had an email from ne're-do-well Rochester today. I got up at 6.30 and sleepily put the bins out. Well, bin singular, life is too short to wash Chappie and Whiskas cans for recycling. I checked my emails, and there he was, loitering in my inbox, for the first time in an absolute eternity. It took me quite some time to muster the courage to read the mail. I did a little fretting, interspersed with some pacing and chipmunk-like nail-nibbling.
But, it was good to hear from the swarthy rogue. No great declaration of love or regret (hence the title of this blog). No evidence of excessive pining, or wasting away with grief or loneliness. No, just some hokum about buying an ice cream van and how he has started to smoke again. (A pipe I imagine, it would complement his suede Val Doonican slippers). Heavens to Betsy! Now I get it!!! It is suddenly so clear!!! The clue is in the tobacco! The stubbly scoundrel is using smoking as a coping mechanism, to numb the deep yet unfulfilled passion he has for me. To make life without Miss Underscore's charm, beauty and tender devotions seem tolerable. Oh, the poor, lovelorn, tobacco-addled cad.
It is a burden really. Having this devastating effect on men. A gift, yes, but also a terrible responsibility. So many of my exs are now struggling with terrible addictions, drink, tobacco, drugs. Some even need therapy and counselling. Is it an indication of how empty and shallow life seems without me, do you think? That is what I tell myself anyway!
Anyway, we exchanged a couple of frivolous, witty and ironic emails about nothing. And that was that. Rochester was always a mystery to me. Ironically, his brother was anything but. I always felt I could look at Senor Boldon and read his mind. I never had a clue what was going on in Rochester's brain. Still don't.
On to more critical matters. Life without Meg is quiet, Hetty has been missing her foster-sister terribly. She is a terribly glum lurcher. I have fed her half a pint of Haagen Dazs (Pralines and Cream), yet she still mopes. I've slipped Dynasty Season 3 on the DVD and let her watch it from a lambswool blanket on the sofa. Ice cream, camp TV and Joan Collins, the perfect antidote to a broken heart, yet it is not working for the crestfallen cur.
But, do not fear, I have one more trick up my sleeve. Please excuse me, y'all, whilst I Google 'smoking pipes for lurchers'.
p.s. Here is a sneak-preview of my next foster lurcher. . . to be collected Wednesday. Sofas at the ready!