Letter

Dear Margaret,

I hope I find you well. And, before encroaching upon the primary objective of my letter, may I take this opportunity to wish you a very Happy Birthday for April 1st. I'm sorry we cannot be there with you. The Atlantic Ocean is something of an obstacle, but perhaps we can arrange a Skype date on your iPad - either tomorrow for birthday tea, or whenever it is convenient - as 'my friend' would so love to hear your voice. (I remember you telling me not to refer to her as the 'idiot' quite as much as I enjoy doing so, and I will make a concerted effort from now on to be more gentle. She has, however, been most idiotic of late.)

And so we reach the thing, the nub of my correspondence.

I may not benefit from 89 years accrued wisdom, and I may not have the ability to complete the Times cryptic crossword on a daily basis, but I feel that you and I have always shared a similarly bewildered attitude towards the activities of your granddaughter. It is with this in mind that she has bestowed upon me the responsibility of the messenger. A cowardly move indeed. The parental unit has expressed distaste at this passing of the proverbial buck, but I am unfortunately bound to do what my friend requests of me. Bribery is her mode of compromise - she will deny me those honey roasted cashew nuts from the 7/11 if I fail to comply. Anyway, Margaret, there is no easy way to say this, and I have prevaricated for a little too long already, so please take a breath and arrange your person in preparation for what, I suspect, might come as a shock:

Two weeks ago on Sunday, your granddaughter crept from the confines of Reed College and covertly made her way to the Northeast area of Portland, in which one can find, if one is desirous, a tattoo parlour called Atlas Tattoos. I was fast on her trail, but by the time I arrived at 4.30pm, the deed was done. The deceit was manifest: a three inch inscribing on the inside right forearm. She smiled at me and said, 'Consette, look!' I looked and balked. It is, I can testify, ridiculous, but the idiot (I apologise - this really does warrant 'idiot') insists that this horror is a thing of beauty, an expression of self at a particular moment in time, a consolidation of all she has been since the age of 15, a blah de blah de blah. Something about a New World, a Divorrrrjack, the cello she has not played properly now for at least a year ...I'm sorry, my writing collapses in anger. She is certain that you will be more forgiving. It is, at least, a line of music, and you are are the person who introduced her to music at 6 years old, and the father has already relented and judged it 'not so bad, as tattoos go'. She says I am jealous: the only tattoos I can ever get are of course imaginary. Hrmph.

In other news, the weather today is verging on mild, and the cherry blossoms are out around campus. My friend is having a wonderful time, and I suppose I too experience instances of enjoyment. Let us speak soon.

Yours Sincerely,

Consette x