The Rumblings of Madness

Dearest Auntie,

It has been some time since we last communicated, and I must say it has been a lovely respite indeed. I am, however, pleased to see that you are finally realizing the vast potential of this endeavor, and I trust that you will, at the very least, attempt to regularly exercise those fat, sausage fingers of yours on the keyboard. Our audience demands it, as you so snottily pointed out in your last posting.

Now, at the very outset, I must address the rumblings of madness that have been emanating from your little corner of the Cotswolds. As an avid follower of your long-suffering companion's blog, I have learned that you have been posturing and squawking about a possible return to the God-forsaken, concrete shit-pit of Los Angeles. I'm quite sure that in your addled mind, you harbour false recollections and cliched fantasies about golden sunsets, balmy breezes and celebrity cocktail parties in the hills. Such foolery will NOT be tolerated.

The LA that you are imagining does not exist, it never did, and your whining and pining are most tiresome. No one needs to see Auntie sitting in a Hyundai on the 405, clad in some gaudy caftan, trying to suppress her road rage. It's an ugly picture and it's never going to happen, so just stop. You are exactly where you need to be. Or, to be more precise, you are exactly where I need you to be.

I will only ever visit you in England. And I wish to make it perfectly clear that you are expressly forbidden from EVER visiting me in New York. And please spare me the rants about how you don't want me to visit you and brighten up your dusty, grey, little life. Your desperation to reconnect is embarrassingly obvious.

So, drink in these words, Auntie, and revel in my gracious acknowlegment of your sad self.

Toodles!

Alice