Over at the 3 Bedroom Bungalow blog, there’s a regular feature called Dear So and So. This week, with a couple of things to get off my chest, it took my fancy.
You’re letting me know I owe you an apology, I can see that now.
For so long, we rubbed along very well. I mostly ignored you and you were always there for me. I didn’t cover you with too much makeup, mostly because I didn’t know how, and I thought things were fine.
Now though I see they’re not.
So, I’m sorry for taking you out, unprotected, into the sun. The good natured way you mostly didn’t burn fooled me into thinking things were smooth (ha ha).
I’m sorry for my bad habits – drinking too much, not hydrating enough, smoking and going to bed without cleansing, toning and moisturising. I really am.
So now you can see how contrite I am, you can take back the lines, freckles and dark spots.
The Woman Who Keeps Getting A Surprise When She Looks In The Mirror And Not A Nice One Either.
I know we haven’t known each other long, but it feels so much like the real thing. Oh yes. I yearn for you, my fingers itch to get to the keyboard.
My Twitter chums are all divine, available, entertaining and they don’t care that I look like a badly dressed sit-com bag lady. They make me feel good.
I can trust you, can’t I? Facebook and Linked-in pale in comparison, you are my dear one.
Ellen (Taking the Fail Whale personally)
All the cool kids think you’re great and my sons adore you, but I think you’re rubbish. Why do you make it so hard for me to spend my money on you?
A Frustrated Mummy
Dear Advertising and Marketing Industry,
I know what February 14th is all about. It’s been coming around with nauseating regularity year after year. I do have to thank you, though. You inspired me to suggest that in order to love the one we’re with a little better, we should show some love to ourselves.
There’s no way lacy pants, B-list celeb perfumes or overpriced roses will make a difference to me and the Panther. Stop talking to us like we’re all hormone-crazed teenagers, go away and think about offering me something I do want.
Someone Who Doesn’t Want Heart-shaped Tat.
Dear Grown Women Who Should Know Better,
Please can I refer you to my previous letter. Valentine’s Day is bunk, it lacks imagination and largely serves to fill the pockets of the recipients of my previous missive.
If your man’s a keeper, then you don’t need him to buy you all that stuff. Oh, and don’t think about withholding, ahem, favours if he doesn’t come up with the goods. Like I say, if you love him, s**g him anyway, even if he forgot to book you the special, unique, lovers’ deal at Nandos/Pizza Express/Wagamama.
Someone Who Doesn’t Want Heart-shaped Tat again.