Love changes everything

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My Scandinavian Sweetheart

A ray of Swedish sunshine lights up the war-torn landscape of my life, illuminating the shell holes, the torn and blackened trees of the no-man’s-land, upon which I gaze out fom my foxhole, this July morning.

Actually, it is only by chance that I logged on to my blog. I have not visited it for some time, partly because no one reads it but also because I lack a broadband connection. Mr Brown (our leader – perhaps you have heard of him?) assures us that every home in the country will have free access to the internet, sometime in the not too distant future.
But it is now, Mr Brown, that we need it. Also what about those who do not have a ‘home’? Those who the police like to describe as having ‘no fixed abode’?
It is to this category that I, myself, belong. (Through no fault of my own, I might add.) Those who find ‘travelling’ more suited to their circumstances.

Don’t’ think I am complaining, because I am not. At least I don’t live in Gaza or Kabul.

It was very smart of you, getting old Gregor to read the tattoo. I have now memorised the password so you could get it erased or perhaps done over with something more aesthetic. (There are some very attractive designs that incorporate scar tissue as a part of the motif – but no doubt, living in such a liberated land, you know all this.)

It was not so smart asking that head-banger of a brother to deliver a letter to me. He still believes I owe him money. Luckily, it is extremely unlikely that he will find me because of my itinerant lifestyle.

I would love to be able to climb aboard a ferry and sail into your arms. Money, however, is the problem – or lack of it, to be more precise. I don’t know where it has all gone. Of course the lesbian really took me to the cleaners but even so… Anyway, let us not dwell on such fiscal matters just now.

The doctor sent me for some blood tests; they came back ‘normal’. So how come I feel like shit every morning, tired, and wanting to sleep all the time? And the irritable bowel syndrome is giving me gyp even as I type this.

A friend tells me that it is all in the mind, that I am blocking my emotions, denying my anger. I think she might have something there. But how does one unblock one’s emotions?

When I woke this morning, I saw a hand sticking out from the covers. This is not my hand, I thought. Look at the skin, all wrinkled like the neck of a tortoise. And of course it wasn’t – it was that of my girlfriend.
That was a lie. It really was my hand. I don’t have a girlfriend. Which, as you can imagine, for a man of my libido presents a real problem!

Well my time on this machine is running out – I use the local library machines. I used to think it sad when I came into a library and saw all the unemployed, the down-and-outs, the vagrants, sitting there, reading the newspapers, now, I find I am one of them!

Write again, soon. This is probably a good way for us to communicate – I don’t mind the world seeing our correspondence – though, as I say, I don’t think anyone reads this blog anyway.


Your lover (at a distance)

George