I write much nicer letters to my friends, even if they're saying pretty much the same things as the terse notes to my father:

My cosy loves,

I hope you're all well. Steph, have you returned to sweet sweet England? I'm getting very sad about leaving here. I wish I could just stay here with nothing to do but explore the mountains and read and eat lots of food, oh yeah and sleep. I think my time here would be nigh perfect if I had a comfortable bed with a good pillow, but alas I have not. Despite this, I don't even want to leave my little room in my cosy hall.

Of course, I am developing a hideous craving for Indian food which is very unfair and untimely because I'm leaving the land not just of Good indian food but Everywhere indian food. I can't expect to find a whole freezer case full of microwave curries upon my return, now can I? Woe.

I have also met someone who could have been great boyfriend material if I were to stick around. He's probably one of the ones I've liked the best, and also it's very much mutual. He is a psychologist in his third year, which means he's graduating. He uses the word "aphasia" and I pride myself on knowing what it means. He is a nerd, it's cute. He should come with me.

I'm reading lousy British fiction, kinda like Nick Hornby Lite, but I love it because the slang is familiar to me now and I like reading it on a bare linguistic level as much as anything. Also am reading Excellent British Fiction, i.e. Angela Carter. The Magic Toyshop messed me up Royally, and I love it more than anything. It is a Sarah book if I ever read one. I fell for it.

I have gotten fat! Fat fat fat! I blame italy also my atrocious eating/boozing habits. I've been working out since I returned to no avail. I found the best pub, by the way. It's cheap and cheerful AND has the best jukebox in the world, with lots of Pulp and the Smiths and U2 as well as like, Janis and Hendrix and good jazz, and all together fabulous music. I don't want to leave it. I have grown very, very fond of just going to the pub for a few drinks. It's very comforting, very cosy.

I'm writing a paper on poetry and modernism, and am getting that kind of fluttery Why am I a History Major when all I want to read is Poetry feeling. I think it's almost insulting to poems sometimes to treat them like historical documents. I certainly know some poets who feel that way.

I need to see Xmen two. Is everyone home? Where are you all? Write! I need to hear from comforting familiar voices. I wish I had you all gathered here, because I love it here but I never laugh here.

All my love,
Margaret

2003-05-12, The art of epistles

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