Monday, 24 August 1992
Yet another boring lunchtime, nowhere to go, nothing to do, well nothing inexpensive anyway. How goes it in the Great Land of the Unwashed? Mum told me you and Jack are buying a house and maybe renting it out. Good move Big Sis, I can see you beating down the door and smacking some pensioner over the head, screaming “Where’s my rent money you incontinent old fart?!” Yeah right on! And don’t believe any of that “Ooh, my pension cheque hasn’t arrived yet and the price of the dog food I’ve been eating has gone up and I’m 76p short.” Just keep klonkin’ the old biddy on her noggin, she’ll come up with the dough when she realises you mean business. That’s the key to getting ahead.
I didn’t end up going to Mara’s 21st, I don’t think she’ll be upset or anything.
The Cure are playing tonight, it should be really good, it turns out our seats are better than I thought and we’ll be able to see them really well. I can see the tennis Centre out the tea-room window and I think to myself, “He (Robert Smith) could be in there right now, practising. Wow man.”
Leah’s really sick at the moment, she was up at 4 o’clock this morning vomiting. I rang her before and she couldn’t stay on the phone, she had to run off to be sick. It’s some gastro thing apparently.
Tuesday, 25 August 1992
Leah made it – just. She was really sick, but picked up about half way through the concert. It was really brilliant, they played really well, and not just all the pop crap either, they played some of their older stuff which was really good. They played three encores, which was surprising and actually, the encores were the best part I reckon.
We’re going again tonight, and this time our seats are a bit closer to the stage, but at the side, so we might hire some binoculars. Last night we were on the second level, front row, so we had an uninterrupted view of him all night, although these three fucking BIMBOS to our left stood up all night and danced around, bumping Paul all night and cutting off half his view. And they screamed. They screamed like motherfucking banshees. I felt like going over and shoving their heads up each other’s asses so they crawled around in a circle on all fours looking for the light switch. But apart from that it was really good. It went for about three hours actually which is really good, anyway, I can’t write much more now, lunch is almost over, I’ll finish it tomorrow.
Thursday, 27 August 1992
But anyway, enough fluff. I got your aerogram last night, which I hope you sent it before you got my other 2 letters, because if not, you never got my other two letters. You really shouldn’t worry about Mum & Dad so much, it really is a thousand times better since he moved out, the only time there’s ever stress in the house is when we get a letter from Dad making accu-fucking-sations that Mum has been spiriting away money, which I don’t think Dad wrote because you can see Uncle Beluga Big-Bum’s greasy prints all over it. But the rest of the time Mum is much happier, and thus, a much nicer person. And really, Dad would have to be happier as well. He doesn’t have to sneak around and lie all the time anymore (although he still lies, old habits I guess). I don’t understand why he stayed so long.
You could be right, maybe it is easier for me, being in the middle of it all, but sometimes I wish I could be as far away as you are, and not have to deal with the pettier aspects of it all, like Mum’s bitching, which is mostly justified I feel. I don’t know what they’re doing, but they’re trying their damndest to screw Mum out of what she’s entitled to, that much I know. There’s too much fucking around for them not to be.
I wish I could tell you the Magic Secret and make things better for you as far as the house and all that goes, but I just don’t know. I mean, I could give you loads of platitudes and clichés and all that shit but you know I can’t stand that. I guess you just have to figure it out for yourself. I know that’s not the greatest advice in the world but hey, I never said I was Dolly Doctor (Though I’d jump at the chance to be.) Whatever you do, just make sure your happiness is the deciding factor man, don’t go in for all this self-sacrifice shit. You are the only one who can make yourself happy Babe. And your jollies are gonna come from what you do and who you are, not where you are. I know that sounds cold, and it probably is, but it’s the best I can rustle up from my 19 years’ experience. My Book of Life may be short, but it’s bound in the finest leather. (My fucking GOD! Did you read that? You could fertilize roses with that.)
And finally, and perhaps most importantly, you mustn’t , repeat – you MUSTN’T allow Thunder Thighs Lilith to weigh on your mind. Your mind is much to wonderful to allow warty old fucks like them to pollute it’s wonderful pastures, you hear me?!! You can’t allow that Diseased Piece of Shit to get you down. She’s poison, and no matter what, we can never allow her to win by letting her think that in any way is she accepted by us. She may get Dad, I’d say she’ll undoubtedly get his money, but we can’t let her get us. Serious, No Shit! At least, that’s the way I feel anyway. I can’t tell you how to feel about her, me, Dad or Mum or anyone, but I’m not going to give her a substitute family for the one she already fucked up, no Sir! But make up your own mind, OK? And I don’t know if Dad is condoning all the shit she put you through, it’s something you should beat out of him yourself.
If you can’t live with your life, change it. It sound glib I know, especially coming from someone who doesn’t know all the ins and outs of the problem, but sometimes it’s just as simple as that. Sorry, I doubt whether I’m being much help, but I do know I’m being terribly heavy, and it’s probably character building. Anyway, I got to go Big Sis, cheer up for fuck sake will ya? I’ll be over there in a few months and we’ll just kill the Problem People, how does that sound? Something slow and dreadfully painful. Personally, I’ve always wanted an authentic full suit of skin, pre-ironed of course.
See you later.