"The creative genius stands always outside the circle of experts." - Adolf Hitler

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Hard work is not something I have ever been good at.

But immediately having made that statement, I realise it is less than the truth. (Here we go, the old ‘truth’ thing again.) I can be – and often am – very creative. And when I am creative, I suppose I work hard at it – although I don’t call this work. It is more like enjoyment.

But what I mean is: the capacity for applied, sustained effort has been cruelly denied me. It’s a gene thing, I suppose. And it is a pity, because if I had had this gift bestowed upon me – along with the creativity, of course – then by now I would have written several best-selling novels, have the cream of the acting profession fighting to be cast in my plays, and be a famous face on television talk-shows. Oh yes, and be very wealthy.

But alas, I was pitched onto this stage-set we call ‘Life’ with a ragbag of tricks and gimmicks, and a script with several pages missing, and told to get on with it. And that is what we all have to do. A Bugger - is it not.

Yes, I am in a reflective mood tonight, Anna. I have been reading some of these blog ‘profiles’ and wondering whether I should expose more of myself in public. This is something I have often felt the urge to do but, being of a shy, reclusive disposition find so difficult. What do you think?


I saw the doctor today. Not our little Indian lady – she is taking a holiday to visit her parents, in Bradford. Gretchen drove me to the local GP’s surgery, where I saw Dr Plankton. He placed his stethoscope upon various parts of my body, telling me to breathe in and out. I took care to turn my face away from him so as not to blow my germs up his nose. (Although he did not seem particularly worried - I imagine doctors are used to this sort of thing and probably become immune after a while.) Then he looked down my throat inviting me to say ‘Aaaaa’, and followed this by tapping my head and face in various places, and asking if it hurt. ‘Only when I laugh.’ I replied. No, I didn’t.

Finally he looked in each ear with a little lamp. His diagnosis was that I have an infection and definitely need a course of antibiotics.
‘So it’s no alcohol then.’ I said, dispiritedly.
‘In moderation,’ he replied, ‘No more than two units a day.’
Well, I never drink more than a pint of beer anyway, so I was quite pleased.

I thanked him, and Gretchen drove me to a pharmacy where I got the tablets. I have to take one, three times a day. I have taken two so far. I hope they do the trick because I don’t think I have ever felt so ill as I have these past two weeks. (Well not for such a length of time.) I expect it’s a bit early to see any improvement, although, strangely enough, I am feeling a little better tonight.


Next morning…

Oh dear, like the girl on the bridge at midnight – I spoke too fucking soon.

At 11pm I had diarrhoea – and again a couple of times in the night. I guessed it was a reaction to the antibiotics and so this morning it was a visit to the emergency surgery: this time it was an Indian gentlemen. (I was going to ask him if he knew our little Indian lady doctor, but I suppose India is a big place, and anyway I couldn't pronounce her name.) He was very thorough. After an examination which took in blood pressure, temperature and being stethescoped all over, he prescribe different antibiotics. I have started on these and am hoping they work because I feel drained of energy and totally out of it.

Our National Health Service comes in for so much criticism, but I could not have wished for more speedy, attentive care had I been a ‘private patient’. And, of course it did not cost me a penny. Incidentally, my prescription was made up there and then by the on-site pharmacy – which is open seven days a week up until 10.0pm.

(And thanks Gretchen for your sterling work at the wheel.)

Anyway, I am now taking things easy: a little rice and tuna here, a bowl of soup and a bit of pasta there… let’s see what tonight brings.

It brought the following morning - but not before my encyclopedia of dreams opened at several unrelated places. I mostly enjoy my dreams - you meet such a variety of people. Unfortunately I have not had an erotic dream for ages.

Now then, Anna, please do not take this as a threat, but if I do not hear from you soon I may do myself a mischief.

Your lonely George

"We are that which others allow us to be": Discuss

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Yesterday, whilst leafing idly through this month’s issue of What Fetish (which I take for the crossword – page 4) I came across an article in which it was suggested there is a bit of the masochist in all of us. I agree. There is also a bit of the sadist. If these terms are too strong for those with a delicate constitution, then how about: ‘victim’ and ‘persecutor’? Of course there is also something of the ‘nurturer’, the ‘carer’ or the ‘rescuer’.


There are many and various 'strands' within us, and I think other people (different people) act as magnets (different magnets) to bring out these different strands. And perhaps the people we most like to be with are those who bring out the strands (we may call them 'traits')) that we favour, feel more comfortable with  – or think are more the ‘real me’- when, of course, they are no more real than the other bits.

Last night I got high on a cocktail of paracetamol, cough-mixture and whisky. I awoke on a downer. If this infection or whatever it is does not clear soon then I think I may as well turn it in.

I looked up, on the Internet, the efficacy of Prozac, as an overdosing agent. (I already knew the answer, but I looked anyway). It’s a bit hit or miss. Not recommended. You would probably vomit – bile and blood – and damage liver and kidneys to a serious degree, but it is unlikely you would kill yourself.

“Is this a dagger I see before me…?”

Only joking.

Wherefore art thou, Anna?

The thing about being ill - you can do it anywhere

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I feel rotten. Following on from the gastric flu, I now have a stinking cold (or a respiratory infection) as I prefer to call it. The infection has now found its way down to my chest - not too difficult a journey for the bloody germs, I suppose – and now I am coughing. I’m just hoping the urinary tract isn’t next. If that happens this bloody thing will have affected every bodily orifice. If I had a thermometer I would take my temperature. I wish I were working – then I could have a day off.


Yesterday I asked Carmen to take my photograph (with my new camera). In the grounds, sitting on a bench by a tree. She made three attempts before she got it right. ‘I’m a dozy cow,’ She said.
I didn’t argue.

You may think it vain, asking someone to take your photograph. But there was a reason. And it was not because I had had my haircut the same morning. (Remember I told you that we have a lady hairdresser who comes regularly and sees to our tonsorial needs.) It is to prove that I am here – that I really exist. And why should I need to do that? Well, that is something I will get around to telling you. I just don’t know how to do so at the moment.

Where are you Anna? Is it because I have this infection that you don’t want to write?

A sick George

CHARLEY

Every time I switch this computer on it says I have files waiting to be burned to disk. I haven’t. (Perhaps someone else has – other people use the computer). Then another little box appears telling me some programme wants to update itself. I ignore these messages. I don’t mean to be rude - I just don’t know how to respond.


That's a problem in life generally: knowing how to respond. To a situation, a person, a remark. Well, it used to be, for me. Now, I do just whatever comes into my head.



Last night I asked Freddie if I could take his dog for a walk. Evenings are the worst for me. I don’t know what to do with myself.

Freddie’s dog is called ‘Charlie’. I think all dogs should be called ‘Scamp’ or ‘Rover’ – they were in the books I read when I was a lad. Or ‘Patch’, if they had splotch of different colour over one eye. ‘Splotch’! That would be a good name for a dog.

But Freddie’s dog is called Charlie. Charlie is a spaniel. He has huge paws, and long ears that brush the ground when he walks. He always has his head down, sniffing at everything. I once read that a dog’s sense of smell is many times more sensitive that that of a human. That is why they sniff so much when you take them for a walk. Smell is their world. A dog’s reality is different from ours.


We think we know ‘reality’, but all we have is a perception of reality; a perception formed by our senses. The hard wiring of our brain. That is why Huxley, Laing and others experimented with LSD and other ‘mind altering’ drugs: to fiddle with the wiring and open the doors of perception.

Maybe that’s what I need: a mind altering drug, to oil the hinges so I can kick open my creaking doors of perception.

I took a plastic bag with me in case Charlie wanted to do his business. He didn’t – but he had two pees.

I have heard it said that dogs see us humans as sort of extremely clever and powerful dogs. Actually, I don't think a dog knows it is a 'dog'. 'Dog' is a label:  a human construct. I doubt if a dog ever thinks about it. A dog just IS.


But Charlie is a very friendly dog – he didn’t bit me once.


Oh, and Purple Cow - I told Clive what you said about having his own blog. He thinks it's a great idea. And because of your interest in his work, he wants to share one of his more 'serious' poems with you. He says he wrote it for his grandson, on the day he started school. Here it is.

FIRST DAY AT SCHOOL

You stand before me -

Short trousers, grey;
White shirt, all neatly pressed;
And your first tie
(on a string).


And I smell again the polish,
Hear nervous plimsolls
Squeak
On shiny wooden floor.


Taste dusty milk,
Warm, from being set out too long
In thick grey beakers.

Again I fight
The waves of fear, that rise
And threaten to drown me
In shame.


‘Be a brave soldier’.
They said.
I swallowed hard –
And tried.


What can I tell you, Thomas?
I just swallow hard.

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Where are you Anna? I know that you are there, somewhere – but I can’t get to you.

Your lonely
George

Blues for an unknown spider

This is a photograph of a dead spider I found on the bathroom window-sill. I photographed it in situ - like the police do before they remove the body from a 'crime scene'. But I don't class this as a crime scene. I don't know how the spider died, but I don't suspect foul play. I have not yet, however, removed the body.

I am not an arachnologist but I would say this spider died of starvation - I have not seen many flies in the bathroom - or I wonder could it have been affected by some toxic (to spiders) chemical in the various bathroom cleaners we employ. Or perhaps it simply died of old age. How long do spiders live? I don't know. It's hard to tell the age of a spider, anyway, even when alive, but when dead and dessicated like this - it is nigh on impossible.

As well as not being able to ascertain the cause, I am unable to confirm the time of death. I don't think the spider was there yesterday, but it may have been and I simply hadn't noticed it. (I've had a lot on my mind). On the other hand it may have become deceased some place else (like the ceiling) and then drifted down here later. I know spiders are quite at home hanging from a ceiling, but for how long after death can they cling on? I simply don't know. In fact the incident has brought home to me how little I know about spiders and, more importantly, how little we all know about death.
Of course, the spider, lacking consciousness (or so we are told) is unaware of the approach of the Grim Spider Reaper. Wouldn't it be nice if we could switch off that part of our consciousness that makes us aware of our mortality? Just that one part? Some may argue that that would take away the greater 'meaning' of life. What meaning?

Sorry Anna, I am  prevaricating, playing for  time. The truth is (or might be, or could be - and it may even change tomorrow) I don't kinow where I am up to - in my head. I don't know what to say to you. I wanted to begin this post by saying 'Well, Anna, the wardrobe door really swung open for me!' But that wouldn't be quite accurate - even as a metaphor.
It was good seeing you, though. A few little strands of grey in that beautiful, natural (I should know) blonde hair, but still my Anna, not looking a day older  than that last fateful occasion when they came for me at Wynorin. And you were wearing those shoes!
It was so good to see you. I know you wanted a conjugal visit - so did I - but Freddie did not. And I think he may have been right. Perhaps we should take it slowly, considering my rather unstable condition at the moment. As Freddie said, "A good fuck can do wonders for one's health - mental and physical. But a bad fuck can undo weeks of successful therapy." And I don't think he said that entirely out of jealousy - oh yes, I saw him looking at you! But I think he's got both our interests at heart. Anyway he did say you could visit anytime, didn't he? I know that you are reliant upon Brian, and his days off work. Incidentally, he seems a nice chap. I was surprised how short he is - I marvel that he manages to reach the pedals of his bus. Or perhaps he just looks short, standing by your side.

I am sorry I have taken so long in writing. I know I asked you to give me time to assimilate all that had gone during your visit, and I do appreciate your understanding - and patience.  I intended to write earlier but I have had one of my "low" periods and this has been compounded by a bout of gastric flu during which I have pebble-dashed the lavatory pan many times over. This activity has now ceased but I am left feeling like a piece of chewed string. The other inmates have been quite sympathetic. Clive even wrote me a little poem:

Ode to Gastroenteritis


You shit
And you shit,
And you think - well, that's it .
But it's not, 'cos you're shitting again.
Then to put Top Hat on it,
You're starting to vommit -
Look out! Here it comes again.

I will close now. The sun is shining brightly and I may take a stroll around the grounds. They have flowers and plants and other green stuff. I don't know the names of any of them, but I have my camera and will take some photos.

(I have now removed the body and flushed it down the lavatory. A sort of burial at sea. I didn't say a prayer, or give thanks for a spidery life. I just said "Cheerio" - and pulled the lever.)

I think of your each day. Please write soon - and visit when you can.

Your (next time?) lover,

George

Difficult times

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But we'll be back!

"I'm forever blowing bubbles." (an old song)

I am living in a bubble. A bubble of anxiety. Freddie told me this - but, of course, I already knew. It has been there as far as I can remember. At first I didn't know that I was seeing life through the distorting lens of this bubble - and with a grey film over everything. -I thought everybody saw the world like this. Now I know that they don't.
I "blew" this bubble a long time ago - to protect me from something. Freddie and I both know what that something is; but we also know that it's dangerous to burst the bubble before we know what may take its place. (or what we can put in its place!)
I shouldn't be discussing this with you, Anna - it's very unethical. But who can I talk to? Not this lot in here - they're all mad. They don't listen, anyway. I listen to them. But they don't listen to me. It's like talking to myself.

Well, today is Polling Day. And no, Anna, I am not enamoured of Mr Brown, and his band of desperadoes. And as for the other two: well, they seem nice enough lads, and they probably mean well, but they are so earnest about everything. Where are the jokes? Still, I suppose you have to be careful if you want to be elected Prime Minister - careful not to offend anybody. Until you are elected, got your feet under the desk - then you can offend whomsoever you want, and there's bugger all they can do about it!

I was reading in the Guardian that Jo Brand (you've probably never heard of her, Anna, but she is a 'comedienne' who has carved a successful television career by elevating vulgarity to an art form.) who is one of the 'celebrities' supporting Labour's campaign, was asked by a journalist why people should not vote for Mr Cameron.
'Because he's a knob' responded the lady.
The article continued by imagining the 1949 election campaign: 'Mr Atlee. Why should people not vote for Mr Churchill?'
'Because he's a knob'.

The pundits say it could be the closest general election for over a century. Well, I know who I'm going to vote for. But I'm not telling. Not even you, Anna. Of course we've had all the candidates around here. One of them (I'm not saying from which party) said to me: Can I rely on your vote?
I said: If you get in power will you make me happy? His smile slipped for a moment, then he said: We'll do our best. And his aide quickly ushered him to the nearest exit.

'What do you think your bubble is protecting you from?' says Freddie.
'You know what it's protecting me from.'
'I'd like you to tell me.'
I give him the answer he wants (which also happens to be true) 'It is preventing me from experiencing 'authentic' feelings which too painful or too dangerous.'
'And those feelings are...?' persists my psychiatrist.
'Anger, fear, grief, JOY, EXHILARATION.'

Did you ever see that film, George -"The Mouse That Roared"? He doesn't wait for an answer. 'It's about a fictitious mid-European principality which is on the verge of bankruptcy. The foreign minister goes to the president and says - I've got this great idea: we'll declare war on America. They will invade - and it will be all over in two days. Then they will be responsible for us, and will have look after us. The president thinks about this for a minute or two, then says - What happens if we win?
Are you afraid of winning, George?

Oh, he's a clever one, is that Freddie. And of course, he's hit the nail right on the thumb - as my mother used to say. My anxiety (and my depression - they go hand in hand) are a way of avoiding responsibility. That's what he's saying. My bubble may be humiliating, distressful, degrading,down-dragging and life limiting - but it is familiar - it's safe. I know this - and he knows that I know it. But can I get to the point where I can take the risk - burst the bubble?

'So what are you going to do about it Freddie?' I ask.
'What are we going to do about it, George. This is a joint effeort - remember.'
'Okay, fair enough. But you're the professional - give us a clue.'
'George, I'd like you to think about what it would be like if the bubble were to burst. Not now, I mean go away and think about it. Write it down - in as much detail as you can: what would you be , thinking, feeling and, most importantly, what would you be doing, if you were no longer in this bubble? We can talk about it at our next session. By the way, Gretchen tells me you have been talking to Clive?'
'Yes, what of it?' I answer, somewhat tetchily.
'And Derek? And Carmen?'
Well, of course. You said you wanted me to 'mix' with the other loonies (sorry clients).'
'What about Eric?' persists my shrink.
'Look, what is this Freddie?' I am beginning to get annoyed.
Freddie looks at his watch. 'I think we'll leave it there for the day - our time's just about up.' He smiles at me. 'Don't forget your 'homework'' he jokes.
As I am leaving I suddenly remember. 'Oh, Anna's coming to visit me on Sunday - I suppose that's okay?'
'Of course - I'm looking forward to meeting her.'
'Funny - that's what she said.'
I'm a bit nervous - about Sunday, Anna. I You see I'm not used to meeting new people. No, I know you're not new... well, you know what I mean.

I've been trying to lift my mood by reading Shakespeare's comedies. It's no good. I just don't get the jokes.
'Much ado about nothing'. I suppose if he'd written that today - for television - it would be 'Much ado about fuck-all'. Starring Jo Brand.

Thanks for putting the duck/goose into perspective. But I still think find things so sad. Life, I mean. I guess it is my perspective. Can I change me perspetive? Do I want to? I certainly want to be free from all of this anxiety stuff.

Freud said: Much will be gained if we succeed in transforming your hysterical misery into common unhappiness.
I will gladly settle for that.

Oh, and thank Brian for taking the photo and putting it on the blog - you can really see the poor little duck's bald spot.

Until Sunday, then...

George

Georgie, Georgie, do not be distressing yourself about dead chick what has been gobbled up by  foul-mouthed English woman with Spanish name. Such is what happens. Brian has saying of how life is dog eat dog. I think this silly since I never see dog eat other dog but I do see lion chase after lovely gazelle and jump on him and tear him to pieces and eat him.(on the tv I see this).  How else would lion be surviving? Even gobbled up chick what never was, if had allowed grow into hen would have eaten worms and bugs or whatever. It make me laugh when people talk about a Grand Design or God’s plan. No grand design is there nor no plan, of God or anybody. We are all scrabbling in the shit on our planet, trying to make it to nightfall.
Even people what calls themselves vegetarian or even vegan or whatever. Just because vegetable and plant are of different species, like they have not bones or blood or move about does not mean they have no feeling. Just imagine if you was a turnip and suddenly one morning when you are just minding your own business and perhaps warming yourself in the sun, saying Spring is on the way, some farmer come along and with his big dirty farmer's hands, rip you from the soil, tearing all your lovely roots to pieces. I bet you would scream in pain only we cannot hear you because we are different species so we think it is okay to do this. Also what about the fish of the ocean who because they are cold blooded we do not think they feel the pain so we yank them out of their natural home which is the water and leave them gasping to die in net. What about that then?
But at same time if we fall off boat into water and shark come along he don’t think – oh this poor human, I must not eat him because he has wife and children at home waiting for him and how said it will be for them if he do not return. Oh no – Mr shark just get stuck into his supper by tearing off leg or arm or perhaps head of unfortunate human.

So you see Georgie this is the way of things in this bloody life. You are not responsible. You cannot put it right.

One more example shall I give to you which happen only yesterday. Brian and myself are having cup of coffee in little Bistro in town of Purley. I glance through window and see small duck type thing huddled in corner of wall all by itself. And I notice that the poor creature have a bald patch on his head. And I think this cannot be due to age because duck look quite young. Then I think perhaps he have some kind of bird disease but then I think more likely this bald patch is due, to other birds been pecking at him, because he also have red mark on his bald patch. – why they do this I do not know. Maybe he is gay or maybe he is just timid and cannot assert himself in the flock and so they pick on him (oh I did not mean this to be joke).
Anyway I draw to attention of Brian who say this is probably a Canada goose but only a young one because he has not got his full colour feathers. Some such shit. Anyway I go up to counter of café and purchase chocolate bar which has nuts and seeds and raisins and stuff in it, and I go outside, breaking bit off and saying – here you are Mr duck or goose or whoever, come and have some dinner. And he does. He snaps it up in his beak like he hasn’t eaten for a month and he comes to me for more. Not a bit shy is this bird. So I give him more, and then more, until he eat all of the bar – except for a bit which I myself eat.

Now what I am saying, Georgie, is this goose/duck is not telling himself – oh I must not eat this seed for it is intended to become  beautiful flower. Or, I must not eat that nut because it want to grow up into  tree. No, he just say – oh, lucky me, life is not so shitty after all because this Swedish tart is giving me her dinner.

Now Brian – who has with him his camera – take a picture of Mr duck/goose and I am asking him to post it onto the blog for your perusal. You may see bird’s bald patch.  Brian is good photographer. I say to him his skills could be put to good use in porno industry. But Brian does not wish for a career change as he enjoys his bus driving.
Now about my visit, you are fretting yourself again which is understandable perhaps since you are a bit sick in the head, and sickness is causing the paranoia. Reason for delay is Brian say he lack money for repair to car. But I say to Brian – why do you not use some of the money you tell me you have put aside for a rainy day. (I do not understand this expression since it is always pissing down in Purley). Anyway, Brian realises the importance of seeing you to me so he agree to do this, and car will be fixed by Thursday which is day of general election.

(By the way, what a silly bugger is this Mr Brown, forgetting to switch off his microphone before he tells his pals what he think of that old cow who talk to him about immigration. I see him on last debate of three leaders were he refer to this by saying – I sometimes get things wrong. By this he mean –I should have turned off my microphone. And this man seek to become prime minister?)

 Brian has day off from driving his bus on Sunday. So he will bring me on this day. Now, does not this make you happy, Georgie? Cheer you up?

I will say no more for now because I fear I have gone on already at length in this writing.

So until Sunday, my lover. And do not be fussing your little head over tragedies of life - I will help you forget these things.

Your Anna

A boiled egg

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Last night they gave me a boiled egg with my salad. Well, they gave everybody one. Actually, I only know for certain that they gave everyone on my table a boiled egg. We eat four to a table; which is not bad. I would prefer my own table of course, but perhaps that’s asking a bit too much. They like us to swap around a bit so that we don’t eat with the same people all the time. In that way we socialise more, get to know one another; they think this is good therapeutic practice – and it probably is. Of course, people being people, we tend to stick to our own little group of four. For example, on my table there is Clive, Derek and a girl I haven’t mentioned to you before: Carmen. Why her mother should have given her a Spanish name I do not know; she’s as English as you or me (well, not you, obviously.) I don’t know how she’s ended up on our table because she hardly ever speaks to any of us. And when she does it’s usually to curse. I asked her what she was in for. ‘Piss off’ she replied.

Actually I think she’s got a “borderline personality disorder”. Maybe even a full-blown personality disorder.

But to get back to the egg. As I say, in the interests of accuracy I can only be certain that everybody on our table had one, but I think it is reasonable to assume that all the other tables had boiled eggs because the staff here are very fair.

Now I love boiled eggs, but for some reason I just sat there looking at this particular egg. There was nothing really special about it. They had removed the shell and it was all white and shiny and firm. But I just could bring myself to slice into it. My knife was poised – but it remained in the air. An image of a hen, clucking and straining, had just come into my head. I thought: a hen does not go through all that to produce an egg so that I can eat it; the hen, presumable expects her egg to produce a little chick, which in turn would grow up into a hen (or possibly a cock – but I don’t want to complicate the issue unnecessarily) and so the furtherance of the race of ‘chicken’ would be assured. And then I come along and stop the process of reproduction: I eat the egg.
I put down my knife and just stared at the egg: a potential chick, just boiled away. Suddenly I felt very said. Is this really what life is all about?

‘What’s wrong with it?’ Carmen. She must have been watching me.
‘Wrong with what?’ I pretended not to know what she was talking about.
‘The egg. The friggin’ egg!’ shouted Carmen.
The others stopped in mid chew and looked up, expectantly.
‘There’s nothing wrong with the egg. I’m just not hungry.’ I eventually answered.
‘I’ll have it then.’ And without waiting for a reply, Carmen reached over, speared the ‘dead chick’ and transferred it to her plate.
I felt slightly nauseous. ‘I’m going to my room,’ I said, and got up from the table. ‘and if you wish to divide the rest of my meal amongst yourselves, that is fine by me.’ And, with as much dignity as I could muster, I left the dining room.

When are you coming to see me, Anna? Sometimes I think that you are never going to come; that you have settled in with Brian and will soon forget about me. Then again, I think that it is perhaps Brian; that he wants to keep you to all to himself. I know he said he would bring you, but this fault with his car – are you sure he is telling you the truth about that?

I’m sorry Anna. Paranoia. It’s just paranoia. I’m feeling pretty fragile at the moment. That business with the egg: I wouldn’t have become so upset if I hadn’t been feeling so vulnerable myself. I think the sadness I was feeling for the chick was really sadness for myself.
But hey, I shall dance again. In fact I am bouncing back already. I know you won’t let me down. We’ve shared so much, haven’t we? And I look forward to sharing so much more.

I’ve been taking some photographs – just around the place - I think I may be getting the bug again. I can’t wait to show them to you. Of course, I could put them on the blog, but it will be much cosier, I think, for us to view them together.

Writing to you helps enormously. And Freddie thinks it is good therapy. By the way, he is looking forward to meeting you.

Write soon – with a definite date for the visit. (48 hours notice, please)

Your Georgie.