Dear Andrea,

Friday, 22 July 2011

My dear, I know it’s a sensitive subject, but if I am to help you, I must speak bluntly.
Here is the answer: if you want Herbert’s libido to go down a notch or two, all you have to do is demand sex with unerring regularity.
I know this can be difficult at first, especially if one has lost the appetite for one’s mate years ago, but if you stick with it, bite the bullet so to speak, it will work. At first he will be entirely delighted, and you will have a tough time, but sooner than you’d expect, he will lose his interest, until, finally, impotence sets in.
Yes, my dear, it is that simple. It is a well known fact to anyone even slightly experienced in matters of love, that when one partner moves away, sexually, the other moves ever closer. And vice versa. It may take months, but it will happen. Roll away with an irritated snarl when he tries to put his hands on you, and he will become nothing short of sexually obsessed. Touch him constantly, leer at him,  demand sex in a whiny way, and within no time you will be the captain of your marital bed. Or, if you keep this régime up, of your lits jumeaux. 
I used to have such troubles with impotent men. Simply because I enjoy a healthy appetite. With poor Raoul it got to the point where I demanded he would seek a cure, or we would break up. As he couldn’t bear the thought of living without me, he agreed to let me take him to a clinic in Baden-Baden, Germany. A Kurort with healthy air and hot water spa, and some very strict nurses. I would take strolls with him through the clinic park, he dressed in a bath robe, looking pale, me in normal attire being patient and supportive. It didn’t help, of course. How young and naïve I was.

Raoul and I broke up, but several relationships later I found the Cure. When Andrew (you remember him, the London cardiologist) started to wear those absurd boxer-briefs, my desire for him cooled “like lust in the chill grave”, as Emerson has it. I could hardly bear to look at him, let alone touch him, in that hideous underwear (Andrew I mean, not Emerson). Although at the time I didn’t mean it as an antidote, after 3 months he was completely cured of his impotence. Unfortunately, I no longer wanted him to be. I suppose I might have if he had returned to more appealing underwear, but the relationship had become a little oppressive to me anyway, so we parted ways.
I wish I could get the Nobel Prize for my impotence cure, as I deserve to. But there is little justice in this world, so I expect nothing from Sweden.
Hope this helps!

Dear Katie,

Sunday, 17 July 2011

Since you have a love of antiques, I thought this little story might interest you.
Ran into Willem, the antiques dealer here in town, when both walking our dogs. He has a huge crush on me of course, and that normally predisposes me favorably towards a person, as at least it demonstrates some good sense, or taste. But when he speaks, saliva doesn’t just fly in all directions, but positively dribbles down his chin. Which, at his age, I find rather absurd. (He’s in his thirties.)
And when a man crosses a certain line of unattractiveness, his crush no longer counts as a tribute, but becomes something of an insult. Don’t you rather agree?
That is the point where good taste may still be intact, but good sense is completely out the window. It’s as if I were to throw myself on the Dalai Lama, say – one should grasp that one doesn’t stand a chance in the world. It’s simply bad manners to maintain a crush on a person so far out of your league.
Me, I mean, out of Willem’s league – I give myself a fairly good chance of seducing the Dalai Lama, should I wish to do so. Granted, the poor pet lives a celibate life, but he wouldn’t be the first man I’ve come across who had to give up that lofty principle after running into me. In fact I’m only a couple of steps removed from knowing him personally, through Eunice and then dr Herissot the famous back doctor. (The Dalai has a hernia, probably related to meditating too much.) I don’t believe I’m being all that fanciful, thinking I could seduce the old dear. After all, if anyone can do it, it’s me. You know – I have half a mind to, just for the fun of it!
Anyway…where was I?
Oh, I wanted to tell you about Saliva Willem’s absurd dog theories. People will have their own firmly held dog theories, won’t they? He thinks it’s a big strategic error that I allow Barnaby to sleep on my bed, because that makes Barn the Pack Leader, and apparently this exposes me to all sorts of grave dangers. What a lark.
His dog, he proudly said, obeys him and ‘knows his place’. He looked very manly and firm, saying that – spitting and dribbling away, which rather ruined the effect. Well hurrah. As George is a mini-poodle, I’m not terribly in awe.
It’s really only the silliest of men who bring up all that Pack Leader nonsense, isn’t it? Well, except for Cesar Millan, I suppose. I rather like him. If he weren’t so inexcusably short, I might really like him. For a few nights, at most, that is.
We’ll talk antiques some more later,
much love, say hello to Robbie from me,

Dear Helen,

Monday, 11 July 2011

Polygamy is all the rage these days, isn’t it?

Why are there so many shows about Mormon families on TV? What is the appeal? 
You must think me old fashioned. I don’t see the point in polygamy. In fact, if I project the whole nutty idea onto myself, it makes me just a little nauseated. Imagine having 3 or 4 husbands! It would drive me insane, darling. I have enough men around me, why would I want them in the house, too? And what if they wanted to have children, like those Mormons always seem to? Can you imagine it – me pregnant all year round, ending up with 15 children?
No, I’m afraid the idea of polygamy is just silly. Thank goodness the law doesn’t allow it. I fail to see see why women would want it – if you feel like a little variety, you can always have another lover, can’t you? But the decent thing to do is to keep your lovers relatively secret from your husband, so it won’t hurt his feelings. That is simply the etiquette, in matters of love. Young people don’t learn that, anymore.
I suppose I decided to open up my letters to the public on just that premise – that the populace at large, and the young crowd especially, needs to be taught proper etiquette in the carnal sphere. Young people are only taught nonsense, these days. I suppose I should go to schools and give inspiring talks. Maybe I will, one day.

Dear Helen,

Gosh, I didn’t know you would take this subject to heart so. I’m sure that “Sister Wives” is a lovely TV Show. But really, dear…
For your sake, I watched a 10 minute fragment. It appalled me. You know that I cannot quite understand why a woman would make do with one man, her entire life. One quarter of one man seems downright absurd, to me. 
Secondly, the women in Sister Wives are appallingly unattractive. This show is hardly an advertisement for polygamy. Wouldn’t any sensible man run away fast, if he saw what was in store for him? Four dowdy girls, and 16 children to support!

Having more partners is only fun if you see them now and then, believe me. You can keep maybe one permanently, to have someone around if you’re the sort that doesn’t like to sleep alone.  And the rest you collect for fun. With the understanding that you can exchange them for new ones the moment you grow tired of them. 
I’m sorry, but I feel I have to speak this bluntly to you. I can just see you running off to be the 5th wife of that silly Mormon, and the next thing I know, I sit here watching you in that embarrassing reality soap. It would mortify me.

Dear Ellen,

Friday, 8 July 2011

I bought another Jesus Rubber Duck, today.
I’ve already posted a raving review on Amazon, but as I know you’re too lazy to move your fingers and surf on over there, let me quote it for you:
My Jesus Rubber Duck arrived this morning, in excellent condition. It looks very much like the real, historical model, except for the backside which is avian, but there is some poetic accuracy in that, as Jesus walked on water. This celebriduck floats nicely.
To my great happiness, I found out that my dog loves Jesus. He could hardly wait till I took Jesus out of His box, and started tugging at Him violently. I had to fill in, for this review, “How would you rate this toy’s educational value?” I gave it 4 stars, because when I say “Fetch Jesus!” my dog immediately fetches Him, and after he has been chewing on Him peacefully all morning, I feel that my dog is somehow calmer, and happier, and somewhat more serious.
Perhaps an idea for your little Timmy, too?
Let me know and I’ll buy a Jesus for him, Rottweiler sized.

Dear Joanie,

Sorry, darling, I was a little grumpy, yesterday. And Dr. Veltman says his sansevieria are not plastic, although the difference is hard to spot. What he likes about them is that these plants actually die when you water them. Which makes them better than the plastic plants he used to own, which deteriorated from the water he sometimes poured on them, erroneously. He likes to get the cheapest of plastics.
Well, I hope that sets the record straight…
He’s been quite a handful, lately.

Dear Joanie,

Tuesday, 5 July 2011

Dr. Veltman being difficult, today. I suppose he’s talked with Burke, because he felt it necessary to opine that my house was ‘messy’.
Unlike Burke he doesn’t imply any criticism, however. “Makes my own flat look like a show room for design furniture!” he cackled.
That’s rich – his dirty old flat is done up in purple walls, left over from the seventies and never repainted, fake skye couches in a particularly nasty yellow, plastic lamps and plastic plants. Oh, and of course he missed out on all the renovation rounds since those same seventies – with the excuse that he was ‘on vacation’, whenever the owner did up the other flats in the building. 
I notice that Dr. Veltman has become very pleased with himself since having this new girlfriend, the Floozy as I like to call her. Well, it was about time he lost some of that pathological adoration for me. On the other hand, he suddenly “doesn’t have time” to do my administration.
That’s because the Floozy insists on taking him to the theatre and concerts and openings and God knows what. She’s well into her 70′s. Can’t she find a hobby like knitting, or baby-sitting someone’s grandchildren, rather than distract dr. Veltman from the odd jobs he does for me?
Of course we all want him to be happy, that’s not the point.

Dear Joanie,

Monday, 4 July 2011

I shouldn’t be watching television! You keep warning me, I know…I’m far too sensitive to be witness to all the misery in the world…Some of the images remain forever etched on my retina. Do you know it gives me veritable Post Traumatic Stress? Complete with flashbacks and sweaty nightmares! It is hard to be a High Sensitive.

For instance, today, there was a documentary about ‘hygiene in various countries’.  Darling, so awful!  The first segment was from Kenia, where happy tribe members (Masai? Tall gals and guys – almost as tall as the Dutch!) merrily demonstrated squatting behind leafless bushes to dispense with their ‘bodily excreta’. (They used a different term.) 
If you think that was the worst – not even remotely! These were cheerful people, and the surroundings were rather jolly – although one did cringe on hearing how they clean themselves with a stone, the entire scene didn’t depress to the point of suicidal impulses.
Bulgaria was another matter. An old lady, living rurally, shared with the viewer her dilapidated little shack of an outhouse. There was, of course, the dread hole in the floor – grim memory of my childhood. Vacations to France that always ended in tears when, inevitably, Daddy insisted upon my using the loo in some road side café. Alas, I never managed to bring it off without soaking my trousers. I think it was these ‘sessions’ (rather the wrong word!) that made me feel, for the first time, that life could be a truly inhumane place.
But the holes in the floor of French road side café’s were, at least, cleaned once a week, or once a month. The Bulgarian lady did not reveal how often her outhouse was scrubbed, if ever, but it certainly hadn’t happened in at least a year. Swill of a mixed brown-grey hue in bewilderingly thick layers was spread out evenly over the concrete floor, seeping slowly, like  lava, into the repugnant hole. It was disgusting beyond words. Since nothing in and around the miserable little hut was remotely clean or fresh, I can only assume that people walked the shit right into the house without a second thought. Excuse me for using so crude a word, dear.
Thirdly, we were introduced to a gentleman in Shanghai, who is privileged enough to live right next to a public latrine. Many people, he said, do not have a loo. Instead they use a bucket, and this bucket they empty noisily, without concern for spillage, into the small public loo. The stench, this hardy Shanghai gentleman owned, was overwhelming.
I thought my life was difficult, these days, and poverty-stricken. I have only small houses, in various countries, some rented, and they do not please me much. But they all contain a water closet, or washroom as my American friends so unforgivably euphemistically call it. Suddenly, my poverty seems almost inconsequential. You know, darling, I do believe there are people who are worse off, in the world, than myself. This is a bit of a revelation to me, as I’ve never considered myself to have been very lucky - not that I’d ever complain. God knows I have enough problems, sharing my life with the impossible Burke, and dealing with penury.
But when I think about it, I really don’t imagine I would do well in rural Bulgaria. And I doubt I would find enough friends who appreciate my kind of wit and personality.
Oh, darling, what nonsense! I can be so silly, sometimes – these are just foolish, self-defeating thoughts…There, I’ve forgotten them already!
Many smiley emoticons,
love always,

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