Tuesday, 27 September 1994

Dear S,

I thought I’d write a letter, the weather here at the moment recalls my mind to Old Blighty, and I thought I should post off this Cleo to you. I know you wont have your birthday present yet, and you must be getting toey as to whether it will come at all, or if it even exists, so I figured I should let you know, even though it will spoil the surprise I suppose.  I’ve bought you a year’s subscription for Cleo so you’ll never miss out on.  I’ll still write, but instead of a Cleo accompanying the letters, you’ll get a variety of magazines, which, I assure you, though different in character, shall be of equally salubrious calibre to that scion of Australian feminine culture, Cleo. Who knows, perhaps I’ll even slip in a “Women’s Forum” if I’m feeling saucy.

So how was the holiday in Spain? Did you tan? Were you impervious to the scurrying natives? Did you lose all your travellers cheques? (“Mr Wong, Mr Wong”) Does it feel different having your birthday in Autumn instead of Spring? We’re both Australian Spring babies you know. You know how most babies are born around the middle of the year in Australia, does that mean that most English are born around Christmas? Do you realise that nearly every sentence in this paragraph has ended in a question mark?

You’ll have to forgive me if the grammar’s not too hot in this letter, the Spell Check has gone kaput. Nothing works around here, especially me. Actually that’s not true. I’ve been working like a dog and Im getting kind of sick of it. So far this year Ive done 90 hours of unpaid overtime. Another ten or twenty hours and that’s about $2000. That’s too much money to be held on faith. It’s all that extra work I did on “Who the Fuck Cares” which has tired me out. Actually, I get my name in the front of the book this year, which should look good on the resume. Still, enough about work, other people’s shop-talk bores me silly, I don’t see why mine should be any different.

Anyway, I ought to go. Til next time.

J

MR WONG MR WONG