Dear Wigleaf,

I felt British and wanted to smoke. I wanted him too, but there were various problems.

I'd eaten too many chips again. I wanted to be skinny, American, and rude.

"We're having an um, well... I guess you would call this a rainy patch," he said. What he really should have said is that it rains here every day. The egg in my throat felt broken.

He offered me a light. Asked me if there was anything else I needed. Was I happy with him?  He seemed smitten with my hedgehog nightie.

"Too polite for me," I said.

"Uhm, well, hm," he said.

Still, this was early days. I was fascinated by the way he hemmed and hawed. My uncle Sydney had done so, but he'd been dead for a long time. This was probably his ghost.




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Read MP's story.

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