Dear You

Pining for the spontaneity of old times...

Dear you,
 
The monthly meetings drag on and on and I wonder how ever it is I can reverse the process, wind back to a time before our hook-ups became regimented affairs. Pining for the spontaneity of old times, when we had our afternoons spare. Rostering a good time seems to fly in the face of all I believe I still hold dear.
 
Shaking things up with a spot of what we call Droppings Practice in Sydney this clear day.
 
Look out down below! Got you!
X

(Postcard collage title: Good company awaits.)

Half-time jellied oranges...

Dear you,
 
After much searching, I’ve found the perfect after-hours roller-skating rink for our tournaments in Sweden. The third door by the back stairs of the town hall has a broken lock that to all appearances looks locked but in fact is not. As with many things, appearance of the thing deemed everything. I’m relying on you to spread the word to our racing comrades, but perhaps tell Ernesto last; he’s no good at secret keeping.
 
Need now only to find a means of providing the half-time jellied oranges and to purchase a pair of speed skates.
 
Until the first Wednesday of the month,
X

(Postcard collage title: Nothing changed since last I was here.)

I plant a wet kiss upon your cheek...

Dear you,

I am pretty certain that when Gene Kelly sang about those raindrops that kept falling on his head in some sort of "is not this enchanting?" way that he did not mean the sort of drops that run down the back of one's neck and all the way down the spine. Raindrops sound more romantic than the reality, or at least that is what I think as several drops catch me in that moment when one must close the umbrella and step indoors. That is when those raindrops as large as can be aim for your dry exterior. With engineered precision, they hit. Drip! Drip! Got you!

I don't begrudge the down pour, I just prefer it when experienced from the snugness of indoors, and if that indoors is to be shared with a thousand fold sea lions then so be it, say I, so be it.

With hair that curls in the rain and a less than sunny disposition, I plant a wet kiss upon your cheek,
X

(Postcard collage title: And the bellowing echoed so that I thought my head would split open wide.)