Dearest Ellen,

Just got into a huge fight with Joanie. My god, she can be so unreasonable, so infuriatingly irrational! I'd like to give her a good flogging. This is one of the worst crises in our friendship, and at the moment I'm not sure I ever wish to speak to her again.

Rafa lost, at Wimbledon. You probably already know this - I was quite crushed, personally, but you know I don't like to focus on dark feelings, so I daresay I would have dealt with it bravely. But when I talked to Joanie to get a little consolation, a little milk of human kindness, that wretched girl said she thought Nadal's opponent, one Lukas Rosol or something, won deservedly. Not only that, but she said that Nadal had been unsporting when he bumped Rosol during the change-over.

 I saw the bump. The two had to walk past each other, and Nadal sort of stuck out his elbow and the Czech walked into it.

 How is that Nadal's fault? It's perfectly possible the guy hurt Nadal's magnificent elbow, which I should deeply resent. Also, even if Nadal had been to blame for the incident (but in my point of view, the Czech was out to hurt Nadal's magnificent body out of jealousy), wouldn't he have had a good reason to do so? 

Apparently, not according to Joanie. I told her that the Rosol lad may have scowled, or walked in an irritating manner (you know how much Peter used to infuriate me, with his effeminate scuttle), and Nadal was understandably annoyed. And that, as the higher ranked player, he had a right to pass before lesser man, anyway.

 She maintained that Rafa had been "unsporting" and said Rosol was a lovely young man with a modest personality. Whatever! I find him much less attractive than Nadal, and culpably so since it is clear he doesn't work on developing his physique, and as tennis is a spectator sport, the most georgeous man deserves, if not to win, than certainly to push the homelier ones about a bit. Anyone who takes Nadal's side in this matter is probably a latent lesbian. I think Joanie should sort her sexuality out, before exasperating me with her belligerent opinions.

 I've quite lost my appetite for the day.

 Lisa

Dearest Joanie,

It's a disgrace! Soon, international travel will be entirely impossible for me. Except in Burke's 20 mph Westfalia camper, I suppose.

I was at the airport, today - leaving Schiphol (Amsterdam) for Macedonia. It's absurd enough to make me go through the metal detector - one look at me should suffice to realize I'm not the terrorist type, even for those customs fools. There should be more profiling. Positive profiling, I'd like to call it. Where people like me simply wouldn't have to do any passport control and could just wait in a pleasant lounge, with a drink, to be taken straight into the airplane. And off again right past customs in the country of destination.

I gracefully went through the metal detector - both in terms of my rather sophisticated clothes and walk (you would be horrified to see what most travellers wear! Track suits and slip on shoes, and yet they don't get profiled) and of my not making a scene. "These people are only doing their jobs," I said to myself, smiling through gritted teeth.

And then this horrible type, some uniformed customs wench, began to touch my body after the very shortest of introductions. She felt me up all over, concentrating mainly on my breasts, which she visited several times. I was appalled. I believe this is called "gate rape". I had an impulse to slap her face, but managed to restrain myself. All I said, with supernatural calm, was: "I would like this procedure to be performed by a man. I believe that is within my rights."

She said nothing, and I was released. I suppose she realized I meant business. A woman should be patted down by a male officer, and vice versa. That's standard regulations. What happened here was outrageous, and Schiphol will have to answer for it. I am going to raise media awareness about this issue.

And now for a large drink.

Lisa

Dear Joanie,

What is it with these hot countries? I remember Ada telling me, when she was back from Southern Europe, that Spanish men were jacking off in public all over the place. Of course I didn't believe her. You know what she's like. Practically frigid. She's so afraid of men that in her feverish mind, they're standing around her, at the Alhambra in Granada, the Alcazar in Seville, and inside the Sagrada Familia in Barcelona, pleasuring themselves while looking at her hungrily.

But what do you think? This morning I walked past a car blocking the driveway to our hotel (I was getting sick of campings), and I saw that the driver was "enjoying his own company", as I once heard it described. Noticing that I'd noticed it, he seemed pleased. I walked on in disgust. He followed me for around 50 meters, honking his horn. That's not another euphemism for masturbation, by the way. He just honked his horn. Whether by accident, I don't know.

Which reminds me of when Petr went to Ethopia at the time of the terrible famine there. I was impressed with him, by the way - hadn't expected him to care. And of course he didn't; he was actually going to sell second hand cars, at a maximum profit. Now, at the Algerian border, he walked into the customs office, and saw a customs officer seated at a table, masturbating.

"I guess it's a question of local mores, " Burke says. "Like blowing your nose. People from Japan are probably all "I walked past the hotel and someone was blowing his nose!"

Still, I can't imagine people would look pleased and proud if they blew their noses and you saw it. But tell me, dear - why is the fervent public tossing off only a feature in Southern Europe and North-Africa? Why not Florida, or Texas?

Or do Texans service themselves a lot in public? Who can tell me this?

Love,

Lisa

Dear Andrea,

Yes, we are in Andalusia. We travelled all the way to the Cabo de Gata Nature Park, in the very South of Spain, in order to hear Spanish families scream at each other and play loud, inferior music over their stereos (usually placed outside.)

Such is life at a camping site. Mostly, we stay in the wild, in Burke's little Westfalia motor home, but sometimes I cannot take the extreme lack of luxury anymore, and need proper bathing facilities, as well as washing machines, dryers and nanny services for Barnaby. 

Burke driving his Westfalia in Biarritz

I keep having to go to Recepción, in order to get help with the internet, or buy coins for the washer. The girl at the counter has a huge, balloon like belly which she supports with both hands as she rises, with great difficulty, whenever I report to her desk. I would love to say "My dear girl, you are pregnant - don't get up!" but under no circumstances will I do that. The risk of error is too great. I have erred at least a dozen times, in my life. Because apparently, even if a woman looks like she is 9 months pregnant with a baby elephant, she is just out of shape in a weird way, and will react with great indignation if I ask her when the little one is due.

It's not my fault. I have always had a perfect figure, and I can't be expected to distinguish between balloon shaped body fat, accumulating entirely in the lower abdomen, and gestation. An elephant is pregnant for 2 years, did you know that? 

The Westfalia getting towed in San Sebastian

Oh drat, my internet connection is very slow...Shall have to report back to Recepción. I almost feel guilty, when that whale of a girl gets up, with such obvious exhausted misery, to tend to my internet problems. Instead of saying "when's the baby due?" I think I will just advise her to lay off the deep fried octopus. Will have to look that up in my Berlitz Spanish for Travellers booklet, as well as "for goodness' sake, you almost look as if you are pregnant."

Love,

Lisa

Dear Joanie,

Moving dr. Veltman, and taking driving lessons. I don't know where to start - all this has taken quite a toll on me.

The Floozy (dr. Veltman's girlfriend) has decided he must move closer to her. I don't know why. She says it's because he is old, and starting to become a little infirm. (Starting...?! The man was infirm at 35. How poorly does this creature know him.) She "wants to be close so that she can help when he needs it". 

I resent this. Helping dr. Veltman is my task, isn't it? And I take it seriously. I remember 20 years back he ran for a bus - it was the first time he had run, or walked briskly, since his high school days (when the unfortunate event occurred in which he knocked out a girl while throwing to the ground his bat in a game of softball - he cleared a full home run before he realized everybody else had stopped playing, to gather around the poor girl), and he of course broke his foot, the metatarsus to be precise. He didn't tell me about it for a week but when I found out I went all the way to the Bijlmermeer area with a pan of soup - not an easy trip! Usually dr. Veltman drives me everywhere, but for the first time in my life I had to take the subway. Can you imagine it? Me in those filthy carriages? But I did it, when there was no floozy around to pretend to care about him. Someone had to step up to the plate.

Haven't I always been there for him, Joanie? I can't count the number of times I've offered to buy him oranges when he had the flu. Of course dr. Veltman always has the flu. You know what he's like, such a drama queen. He won't eat fruit for the life of him, so there was never any point in my going, but I'd have gone to the Bijlmermeer on the bus and then the subway just to give him those oranges. Because I care.

And now suddenly, after decades, this Floozy steps in and pretends to know what's good for him. He has to live close to her! Which of course means she's simply too lazy to take her ass to the Bijlmer. Some people want to have everything in life handed to them. Sorry to be so rude, my dear - the floozy's very existence has a coarsening effect on me. Even my hands seem to feel less smooth, these days.

Well, I won't make a scene. That's just not me. I suspect she is in it strictly for the money. My, will she have a rude awakening when she inherits all of 350 Euros. All he possesses in the world that's of any value is his collection of Märklin miniature trains. And which child wants those, in this computer age? I'd love to see the look on her face, oh, Joanie, it will be hysterical!!

Love,

Lisa

Dear Lonnie,

I'd never claim all my friends are beautiful - in fact, Joanie is downright ugly, if I must be blunt. Poor pet - don't ever tell her I said that. And you know that my thesis is that you don't really notice a woman is ugly if she wears make-up and the right clothes. Which she doesn't, by the way. The girl is stubborn as a mule, quite apart from looking like one. I love her dearly, of course.

But I was downright frightened when I came across this photo. How can people look like this? How does it happen? Is it a terrible disease? An accident, in which the couple were both involved? How distressing this must be for those close to them...

Oh wait. This didn't quite work. Let me blow up the main offending part of this picture...

Well, that's all, for now. I really needed to let you know. It's the biggest thing that's happened to me all day. I won't sleep, tonight.

Dear Joanie,

Got lost, this morning. Burke’s fault, for pointing out to me that I’ve gained two pounds since last year. I was horrified, and decided to walk to the village in the morning, instead of going by car.

First time I’ve ever done that – it’s only a few hundred meters, but I couldn’t figure out for the life of me which path to take, and which one not to, amid all those wretched vineyards here in the Bordeaux area.

Reminds me of a time in Russia with Peter. We’d had another thunderous fight, you know how temperamental he was, and I resolved to walk off by myself – let him stew a little. Like meat, men get tenderer and more palatable when left in the pan for longish whiles. This was in the swamp lands south of Suzdal. Suzdal is a touristy spot, but guess what? The swamp lands under Suzdal are not, as it turned out!

And of course the Russian peasants living there didn’t speak one word of English, so it was all rather disastrous. I believe I’ve been walking round and round, in the scorching sun, for five hours. Very bad for the complexion. I came back so exhausted and unnerved that the wholesome effects of stewing were completely lost. Peter lay perfectly happily zapping Russian television in our hotel room. You can imagine how furious I was.

Lots of mosquitoes, at the moment. And they always go for the better quality of blood, don’t they? Pulled the sheets completely off of Burke, last night, as he slept on his stomach, his bare back forming the perfect landing area. And still those wretched creatures went after me. Isn’t it always like that?

Love,

Lisa

Dear Joanie,

I’m thinking that what I really need is a widower. Burke is wonderful, of course, but he’s a serial divorcer, and though I don’t think for a moment he would want to ditch me (one has to be modest, but what man in his right mind has ever ditched me?), it makes for a difficult experience.

They get so contentious, don’t they. Divorcés, I mean.  The widower, on the other hand, is saddened by his loss, humbled by fate as it were, and eternally grateful to find a new mother for his children. Even if his children are 45, as Jason’s were, when he so forcefully pursued me. The widower knows the value of life and of love, and doesn’t want to waste another minute arguing. Which, preferably, results in him agreeing with me in most things. Or at least a damn sight more often than Burke does. 

If you think of it, Burke, through his many combative marriages, has been trained to fight. And he has been trained by one of the best in the field – I am speaking of Alice, of course. So his neurons are lined up to get argumentative and heated at the drop of a hat. Which means I have to be the mature party, and though as you know I pride myself on being very tolerant and wise, in spite of my precocious age (“old as a sequoia, young as a fawn”, I once wrote in a poem about myself), it takes a toll on my nerves to be the adult. If I wanted children, I’d have them the ordinary way, you see what I mean?

If divorcés are hardened combatants, Burke is a Green Beret. He ambushes, he snipes, he carpet bombs. I am getting severely fatigued from being the adult. Perhaps I should encourage him to take up a hobby. Like Thai boxing or oil wrestling, what do you think?

Dear Dottie,

My tennis playing days are definitively over. Went to the club last night with dr. Veltman – not that he plays, of course. Dr. Veltman has never touched a ball in his life.

Oh, untrue – he informs me that he played soft ball in grammar school, as an unfit 15 year old. He was awful at it, but did once score a homerun. There was strangely little opposition, he noticed, as he ran his round of glory around the bases. When he arrived, triumphantly, at home base, he saw a group of people standing around something. They turned angrily to him. In their midst lay, on the ground, a girl. Turned out that after he had struck the ball – in itself a most unexpected event – and thrown the bat away to start his run, the bat had hit a classmate in the head. She was unconscious. He doesn’t know what became of her.

At the club, dr. Veltman drinks wine and smokes small cigars, staring at the players in an off-putting way. Now and then he shakes his head slowly and sadly, which can put less confident tennis players right off their service..

I happened to watch a women’s game (no men playing, or I wouldn’t have, of course) and it was not pretty. These women have no sense of dress or dignity. A huge girl, fairly young, carried frightening amounts of fat on her stomach. As I’ve always said: all women should watch their figure, but tall girls should subside on dry salt crackers entirely. If there’s too much of you on one axis, you can’t afford branching out on another axis.

Not only was this girl huge, she wore her t shirt tucked into her shorts. I wouldn’t have dreamed of showing up in anything but a stylish tailor made skirt, in my day – mind you, nothing so extravagant as these Williams girls wear on the tour. Flashy and vulgar. But shorts on a woman are just horrifying. This girl’s looked to be made of nylon, and very tightly followed her giant thighs. 

And as she stood there, labouring away at her service, sweat glistening on that big forehead, I realized at once that I can never play again. How could I try to beat such a girl, whose day depends on a win in these silly club championships? She has nothing else in her life!

I know I’m famous for saying plain girls have it easy, and on the whole that is true – any moderately confident plain girl has the world as her oyster. But there are of course limits as to how far you can push being plain. And she pushed the envelope. I would have been unable to muster the will to beat this girl. As I’d look at that desperate, red face, and the large, awkward, labouring body, I would have been frightened lest the last bit of light would depart from those lifeless, tragic eyes.

So I shall play no more. Oh, a little mixed double now and then, purely for recreational purposes – but no competition. Truly, if I weren’t so soft hearted, I would probably have been a formidable player. I have fabulous technique, my teacher always told me (and not only at tennis, he said, but that’s another subject.) I suppose I might have made it to Wimbledon.

Bought a book called “Controlling People” by Patricia Evans. What do you think – there’s no instructions in it, whatever! False advertising I call that. I will toss it into the bin.

Love,

Lisa

Dear Joanie,

Burke may have had a little point about cleaning surfaces. But only for high gloss paints. With latex, you can successfully clean every surface with your paint brush, and you never have to touch water and detergent again. But today I painted over a door, and I must say, high gloss paint does not take at all, on greasy surfaces. A bit of a disappointment.

And a little warning: directly after painting a door, open that door. Because if you paint over locks and hinges, you may never have the chance, again.

Love,

Lisa

Dear Candace,

Did you know you can not only wash, but sculpt, with a paint brush?

I don’t know why working people always make such a Big Fuss about menial labour. Yes, it is tiring, and should not be done for long spells on end. But it can be quite riveting. It’s all in one’s attitude, I always say.

I’ve learned a few things, along the line. Of course Burke keeps admonishing me about cleaning surfaces first, before you paint on them, and then adding anti-mold layers and primer and all that nonsense.

Well, between you and me, none of that is necessary! You can paint right over the filth. At first, I gingerly covered only very small specks of crummy matter, but as I went along, my confidence grew, and ultimately I ‘washed’ entire doors and wall panelings.

It’s so easy! Oh, how they keep telling one it can’t be done – that the surface must be cleaned.Pfff! And nobody ever tells you why, do they? It’s just a dogma. Like socialism and communism. And they hold to it so religiously! Well, it’s poppycock. You can paint right over anything, provided it doesn’t stick out too much, and if it’s something still wet or moist, you’ve got to watch out in case you accidentally ‘paint’ other areas with that very stuff – which has happened to me, and set me back half an hour, as I had to wait for it to dry and then apply some more paint.

Sculpting: same thing. Any cracks in the wall, or between the door and the wall, can be filled if you apply the paint very generously, and set to work with confidence. You must make bold strokes, or it won’t work. It really is a confidence game, painting one’s house.

My hallway looks like new. Now I just need to get Burke up the ladder to do the higher bits. He has a fear of heights, so I’ll have to be forceful.

Do come over and see my work, soon!

Love,

Lisa

Dear Joanie,

I gave up on the bedroom windows, after my little mishap yesterday. Painting, I decided, was going to be much more fun.

The wall across from my bed looked grey and filthy, so I thought I’d paint it a merry blue. Burke told me I should first clean the wall, then apply an anti-mold layer, then an undercoat, and then finally the merry blue paint. I tried it, on about 1 square foot, and it was awful. I wouldn’t wish it on my worst enemy. So I simply painted one layer, didn’t bother to clean the wall, then decided the radiator would also look prettier if you couldn’t see the dirt on it, so I painted over the dirt, and by God it looks great. Turns out you don’t need special radiator paint, at all!

As for the wall, I can positively say now that cleaning it first, let alone all the mold and undercoat nonsense, is utterly unnecessary, and only done by people who like to punish themselves. I just removed some spider webs with my hand, and brushed off a little soot here and there. Didactually fill little holes in the wall with some stuff from a tube, which one is supposed to leave drying for hours – nonsense, again, you can paint over it within a few minutes.

But even without all the masochistic primer and mold and other obsessive-compulsive stuff, it was exhausting. I broke out in a most unpleasant sweat, and you know how I always pride myself on never sweating.

I suppose I will call this my Year of Living Rough, and write a book about it, later. I do think I am reaching interesting insights, that others could benefit from. But how long will I be able to go on like this? I am very fond of Burke, but I’m slowly losing the will to live.

Love,

Lisa

Dear Joanie,

I’m just not made for household work. Oh, what a curse it is to be with a fascinating and highly attractive, but penniless man. Not sure I’ll ever go that road again.

It is a tribulation, this cleaning. I decided to do some work around the bedroom, because Burke complained about “inches of dust” and dirty windows. I thought I might clean the window sills and who knows, if I had time, maybe the windows. So I got a big bucket from the garden, which I had once planned to grow plants in. These buckets seem to deteriorate with time, don’t they. It was strangely filthy, with a kind of disgusting grey jelly both on the outside and the inside. Dozens of woodlice sped off as I lifted the bucket, afraid lest the sunlight might turn them into something pretty.

I cleaned the inside, almost gagging, and then filled it up to its rim with hot water – I don’t like to bend down too much to reach in, when I start the actual work. That is such a drag. It was still disgusting on the outside, so I put it on the kitchen counter for further cleaning, balancing it precariously on the narrow ledge next to the sink.

They say everything happens for a reason, but I cannot fathom why that bucket had to fall down. Even as it went to to the ground, seemingly in slow-motion, I was in denial. I remember very clearly thinking, and meaning it: “This is not happening.” But it was, apparently.

I sat on my couch for a while, then a longer while. Ultimately I resigned myself to the fact that the filthy flood had to be dealt with. So I got a few tea towels, which weren’t remotely enough, then decided to use t shirts that were dusty anyway, and which I  decided on the spot I’d probably never wear again. I tossed the shirts on the floor at regular intervals, and hoped they would soak up the sea of slush.

Then, I head Burke at the door. I quickly gathered together the t shirts and tried to look heavily involved. “Just mopping the floor!” I said in happy sing-song tones, when he came in. He looked so happy. “That’s my girl. You’re really making headway, aren’t you?” Burke likes it when I apply myself; he’s old-fashioned, that way.

I didn’t tell him I’d actually made zero headway, apart from mopping the floor with filthy slick. It will only show once the moisture dries completely.

Love,

Lisa

Dear Helen,

Took dr. Veltman with me to the famous Bronovo hospital in The Hague, where they treat the Queen. When she is ill, that is – otherwise not.

Aunt Eunice was in there for some vague complaint – one of the countless things she always seems to have wrong with her. If it isn’t one thing, it’s another. I think it’s simply an excuse to make me come visit her. And dr. Veltman jumps at the chance to drive me there, so we can spend some time together. Looks like he’s getting a little tired of the Floozy, already – not that I’m surprised.

I won’t repeat Eunice’s conversation to you as it is so dull, and usually centers on either teapot cleaning or unsavoury physical ailments. What was it this time? Kidneys not functioning or something, I’m sure there’s a technical term for it. She seemed perfectly fine to me. Pale and thin, I suppose, but she always is. Never eats much; not much use worrying about her figure at her age, but some women are irredeemably vain, aren’t they. Wouldn’t be surprised if she goes to these teenage anorexia sites, where they learn how to get through life on three bread crumbs a day.

Enough about Eunice. Dr. Veltman was very trying, the entire afternoon. He gets nervous and hectic, when he can’t smoke, even for 15 minutes. The low point came just after our tedious visit with Eunice, when he insisted on helping a sick gentleman in a wheelchair into the elevator. The elderly gentleman – not much more elderly than dr. Veltman, by the way – protested loudly, but it’s as if he doesn’t hear things, isn’t it. He just pushed the fellow into the elevator, until the poor old thing positively shrieked in dismay. No wonder – his IV on wheels was still outside. The elevator doors closed on the IV line, but before gentleman and IV were separated by gentleman going down and IV staying on the third floor, a helpful passer-by managed to open the doors, and save the situation. The patient was quite upset.

Most exhausting. No attractive physicians around, by the way. Might as well not have spent 1.5 hours doing my make-up. I thought the Bronovo was the best, but by God I’ve seen better looking doctors even in that horrid poor man’s hospital Lucas-Andreas in Amsterdam. So, darling, I suppose I’d say, in summary – there’s little joy in falling ill, these days. Perhaps I should eat healthy food, after all.

Love,

Lisa

Dear Joanie,

Remind me never to set my high heels in a health food store, again.

These places don’t agree with me anyway. I suppose Candace is right and one should eat vegetables and wheat grass and sea urchins and fermented horse spittle, but so long as these things aren’t sold in luxury shops I think I’d rather die young.

However, just to humor her (she’s coming over and will not eat anything less ‘sensible’) I dropped in to the Lotus Health Food Store to get her profiterolles made out of old newspapers, or something very much like that.

A lad of perhaps 16 years of age stood in my way, in the middle of the aisle I was traversing, in the way that irritates one tremendously if it’s a woman, and makes one tenderly forgiving if it’s a young male. I gently put my hand on his shoulder, almost caressing it. You know how I like to be kind. I bent over to him and whispered in his ear “My dear, would you mind awfully…-” when suddenly I noticed… it wasn’t a lad at all! It was a middle aged woman with closely cropped hair, military style. I withdrew my hand as if it was on fire, completely flustered and disgusted.

How could such a thing happen? How could my natural instincts, otherwise so robust, have let me down? I felt dirty and shamed. It’s a bit like the times (happened on two occasions!) I patted a little child on the head only to be faced by an angry dwarf turning around and glaring at me. But those times, there were no sexual overtones and an immediate crisis of gender identity.

I mean, do consider – I have never touched a woman as tenderly as I did this one, and never would in a million years. When a woman stands in my way in a shop aisle, I don’t touch her at all, or if I do, it’s to push her out of the way. I can’t stand ill-mannered women with no perception of where their bodies are located in space, and deal with them accordingly. I think that’s only fair.

And it’s been such a dreary day, already…It’s raining, and Aunt Eunice had to share with me that she cleans her teapot by leaving denture tablets in it overnight.

There really is no hope for humankind, is there?

Love,

Lisa

Dear Andrea,

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!

Lisa

Dear Katie,

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,

Lisa

Dear Helen,

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.

Love,

Lisa

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.

Love,

Lisa

Dear Ellen,

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.

Love,

Lisa

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.

Love,

Lisa