Thursday, 1 September 1994

Dear Sis,

How’s the birthday girl?  Mum tells me you’re jetting off to Spain for an el cheapo face lift to halt the inevitable march of Father Time.  How old are you now anyway?  It doesn’t matter, you being five years older than me and all.  I would gladly give the flower of my youth in exchange for all the arcane wisdom knotted up in your wizened little head Sis.  I’m sure Jack will still love you, even if he does eye off the caravan every time your memory slips. (Remember that?  “The caravan’s looking good, Mum”)

I’m sure you’ll have a super time in Spain,  Make sure you let all the local native savages know that you’re wealthy Inglés and ensure that they display the appropriate deference or slap ‘em with an indecent assault charge, like Judy Davis in  “A Passage to India.” If you happen across the town of El Forrel, to show some local knowledge shout out at the top of your lungs “Vive Azana!!” I’m sure it will procure results of some description.  Just don’t send me your medical bills.

My lounge suite arrived yesterday, and I just wanted to let you know that I think it is nothing short of divine.  It’s got that furniture polish smell which has spread throughout the whole house, imbuing the place with a pervasive sense of its newness.  Now I can watch television again, its long enough to stretch out on languidly for the Simpsons and Wednesday night movie, rugged up in a blanket with hot chocolate (the drink, not the band.  I rug up with them on Thursday nights.)  Last night, after I’d moved the lounge suite around the room and found the best spot for it, I was struck with the realisation that it was mine.  Mine.  All mine.  So then I wandered around the house (inasmuch as one can wander around a two bedroom house) and passed a benediction on the things I knew were mine.  The benediction went, “You’re mine. You’re mine.  You too.  And you over there, you’re mine” and so on, going on a complete possession trip.  It made me feel warm inside, I love my things.  It made me realise actually, that I’m not doing so bad for a twenty-one year old, even if my social life is about as exciting as a Methodist cake-stall.

So as you get closer and closer to the big “three-zero”, just remember that I’ll be four (or, seasonally adjusted, five) years behind.  I know I won’t forget it.