THE LOST CHORD
Dear Greta,
High time, I thought, for a letter to my oldest friend. How are you? I’m OK but a lot’s happened since I wrote last spring. And things have gone awry with me, but no use in complaining. Something missing from the music, as the saying goes.
Do you know what? Adam has got himself into a lot of trouble over some girl. And I always thought he was a joy, can’t tell these days. He fell head over heels with someone called Prudence – I met her once – pretty enough – but not much up top, in my estimation. Adam must have been after things that didn’t come from people’s heads. Anyway, she led him a rare old dance. Musical chairs didn’t have anything in it. Off with Adam one day, off with someone else the next. Hunt the lost thimble? Prudence had several silver ones strung through her nose, it seemed. I didn’t look up close. Greet, believe me, I’m sure some of the holes were festering! Talk about something missing from the music, she sings at pubs with pianos, and I can’t imagine anyone liking her screeching.
Enough about Adam. Safe to say Prudence is no longer on the scene. Adam’s no oil painting, as you’ll recall from his first communion, but he deserves better than her. He’s back to his old ways. Sinking jets, he calls it. I call it something else. There’s no telling them these days. I just have to sit back and watch him waste his life. His teeth are still pearly white, though. His best feature. (Sorry, went back and crossed out jets, and put jars instead – whatever the case young men are hardly ever sober, with binge drinking and things like that).
I don’t get around much now, myself. Too much telly, with it being on so often. I preferred the good old days when you could only get a test card and light music. Susie visits. She’s not like Adam. She’s settled down with her Peter and both got well-paid jobs. No kiddies. Not sure I want grandchildren anyway. How are yours? Great grandchildren, by now, I be bound. I’m sure your hands are full making Cjrismas present all year round, eh? (Hey, just noticed something else wrong – misspelled Chritsmas. Got it right now. This letter will all be crossed out by the time I finish! You’ve got to laugh).
How are your troubles? Hope the rashes have died down. Not that we had pins and needels in our bodies in our day – and pores weren’t the easiest things to clean. I still wash out my nostrils with soap every day after coming back from shopping, and I’ve not had a proper cold now since … well, ages ago, I forget.
Sorry this letter’s not very newsy. I suppose at our age, Greet, news happenss to younger people. Telly’s full of it. All those wars and people having affairs and people being greedy about everything they own, houses in the sun, makeovers, repairs … talking of which I’ve just checked through this letter and corrected some more spellings and crossed some things and inserted others I won’t bother to mention. But there’s something my mind’s lost I meant to put in somewhere above. On the tip of my tongue. Never mind. It all makes sense without it, I suppose. Couldn’t have been important. Probably only just a word. Maybe something to do with Prudence’s singing. At least she’s happy.
All the best for now.
Love, George. xxx
