Dear Joanie,

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.

Love,

Lisa

Dear Joanie,

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,

Lisa

Dear Helen,

What is the matter with that silly rag Cosmopolitan? Ostensibly written for women – but the staff have to be men, or they wouldn’t exhibit such absurd notions about what turns a woman on.

I was just flipping through “The Twenty Hottest Guys of 2010.” Now, the issue may be a year old, and as we all know – a man who is hot in one year may be entirely withered the next. The years twenty-three to twenty-four are crucial, in that respect – that is when the six pack abs wilt into a beginning beer belly, the hair line starts to recede ever so imperceptibly, and something so intangible as the flower of his youth seems to fade.

But, of course, not even in 2010 was Cory Monteith hot, or Daniel Radcliffe, or, God help us all, Prince William of England. These poor lads are too young for me, anyway. I have an unfortunate penchant for older men with personality disorders – which doesn’t mean I don’t like the young, but only for their physical qualities. When these are absent, the situation is hopeless.

And, good Lord – Matthew Morrison? Russell Brand?

No healthy woman would display such questionable taste. I’m not fooled by the writer’s comments “God, what a smokin’ cast!” and “wouldn’t you die to be that [his] girl?” And what about this? “Early in his career, a casting team told his agent that Bradley wasn’t “f**kable.” We’d be more than willing to prove them wrong.”

Now I’m certain Cosmo is written by men. Always thought Bradley Cooper could be a boy’s boy…

It was Joanie who sent these Cosmo’s to me – that girl has no sense, sometimes. If she has to fill her days with reading cheap rags, at least let it be something female-oriented.

Love,

Lisa

Dear Julie,

I don't have a lot of time, but in my spare moments I sometimes glance at Wimbledon. Can you believe the BBC? They're showing the entire Murray match, while ignoring Nadal's quarter-final! This shows unbelievable contempt for their female viewers.

Can't believe Murray is allowed on the courts, anyway - hideous body hair in the wrong places (on his throat!), untanned, unpretty...I thought tennis was a spectator sport!

Love,

Lisa

Dear Marcia,

Oh, the ravages of aging! Was watching a little tennis, today (I try to watch Wimbledon when I have a little time to myself), and saw a face I recognized at court side. It took me fully 5 seconds to realize who it was. How awful is aging, if it makes one unable to tell Ann Jones from Bjorn Borg!

Incidentally, the same was always true of Golda Meir and Lyndon Johnson, in their middle aged years. It was impossible to tell those two apart, for anybody but their very nearest and dearest.

Love,

Lisa

Dear Helen,

Thank God Nadal won, today.

He had a slight injury, in the first set, and stretched his magnificent legs out for the trainer. As a result, one could study these legs up close. (A purely aesthetic pleasure for me, of course.)

The atrocity about tennis has been, since many years, the change from normal short shorts (as God meant them to be) to the hideous baggy things the boys drape over their rectus femoris and gracilis muscles, these days. (No, dear, the ‘rectus’ in rectus femoris has nothing to do with what you’re thinking.)

Aren’t the sponsors worried about losing the female audience?

But you know how I always recover from the disappointments in my life. Especially when that splendid specimen of a Spaniard arrived on the scene – excuse the alliteration. What a thoroughly deserving physique! You know how I am normally a leg woman, and his are simply commendable. I’m also, to some extent, a chest woman – and I will go on the record as saying that Rafi’s chest, revealed when he changes into a clean t-shirt, is entirely beyond reproach.

Just the right amount of hair – too little chest hair induces sadness in me, as you know – but too much of it can put one entirely off one’s feed. Remember Sam Gotthardt? Daniel went to Greece with him, last year. They shared a hotel room, and when Sam undressed, Daniel found himself thinking: “Could evolution be true, after all?”

Our descent from apes  (oh goodness, wouldn’t Faber scream at me – “there’s only a common ancestor”; but I don’t care much for such academic distinctions), our descent from apes, I say, should not be too obvious in a man. Don’t you rather agree? It’s been proven, incidentally, that we have on average 4% of Neanderthal blood in our veins. Averages don’t mean much – I’m quite sure I have none, and that some people are close to 99%. I won’t mention names – but don’t you think it’s time to trade Scott in for a newer model, dear?

Anyway, Helen – Burke is genuinely worried I will try to get a date with Nadal. I suppose the dear man still thinks of me as 23 – isn’t that lovely? Mind you, I could still beat that young Spanish girl of Nadal’s, hands down. But I prefer not to.

I adore boys. But the truth of the matter is, and don’t ever tell Burke, that I can fall, emotionally, only for older men with personality disorders. And these days, I’m just not so sure that I feel like having sex without ‘feelings’. Well – now and then, of course, but not on a daily basis.

Incidentally – I haven’t yet cheated on Burke. What is the appropriate time, in a relationship, when one should start thinking about doing that? I always feel it’s rather de rigueur to observe a certain period of exclusivity, a little time set aside for one’s mate, only. But at 8 months into this thing, I’m getting a little jumpy…

Love,

Lisa