Letter to Rebecca #2

The epistolary dialogue continues...

Mailbox, by Terry Freedman

Greetings!

Welcome to the second letter I’m sending in response to Rebecca’s second one to me, which you can read here if you have not already done so:

35: Letters to Terry - 2 of 3

Strictly speaking, you can read it there even if you have already done so, but you know what I mean.

The great thing about this correspondence is that you, O Reader, can peer into our lives without having to wait till we’re dead. But enough of this persiflage! On with the letter. But first, to be sure of not missing a crucial piece of information, subscribe right now! And to Rebecca’s too.

Dear Rebecca

Thank you so much for your letter. It’s really nice to receive letters from an actual person. The last time I received a proper letter was in 1982. The Department of Health and Social Security wrote to me as follows:

Dear Mr Freedman

Have you ever lived at either of the following addresses?

This was followed by two blank address boxes.

I sent the letter back with the following note scrawled on it:

Dear Sir/Madam

No. There are also a number of other addresses I’ve not lived at.

They never replied.

Although the rain has eased up a bit, I’m tempted to suggest to the local council that they erect a sign like the following at the entrance to the huge puddles that dwell at the bus stop since the “improvements”:

Danger underwater hazards, by Terry Freedman

On the subject of rain, I like your positive take on the omnipresent and ever-present rain in Scotland, that at least at some point it’s going to stop. But I say, be careful what you wish for. The rain in my neck of the woods has stopped because it’s too cold to rain. The tap in our garden has frozen, despite my putting a load of lagging around it.

The weather is, as always, insane. On Friday Elaine and I went out for a walk along the Thames Path. As you don’t live in London, Rebecca, I should point out that this is a path along the River Thames. Elaine insisted that I wear about 8 layers of clothing, but it turned out to be a really warm day. I was absolutely sweltering.

View from the Thames Path, by Terry Freedman

Then yesterday we went out and I wore exactly the same number of layers, and was just warm enough. Apparently we’re going to have 4 inches of snow next week, but it won’t make any difference to us: we can’t go anywhere anyway because of the train strikes.

So you can’t take notes on the go? <Sigh.> “My wits begin to turn.” — King Lear. Why not dictate into your phone? Admittedly, you’d need to get Jim to turn it on and load up an app if your fingers are too cold, but after that you’d be good to go. I evaluated some ways to do this a year or so ago. I think I came to the conclusion that using Google Docs or Gmail are pretty good because the speech to text programming isn’t too bad. Otter is quite good too, though not so much when there’s background noise. So please, no more lame excuses about why you can’t write when it’s cold. “Proper” writers like myself regard it as a badge of honour to spend years starving in a garret. Not for us the luxury of sitting in a warm Starbucks quaffing a Chai Latte.

I like your photos. You always illustrate your letters and articles on Substack with such beautiful pictures. My photos tend to be more of signs and the ephemera of everyday life. The latter is my gift to the future. When social historians and anthropologists of the 31st century want to know what life was like a millennium ago, they will only need to look at my pictures.

And speaking of signs, I’ve started a new section on my Substack called Oddities, in which I look at, er, oddities. The first (and so far the only entry — but give me a chance, it’s only been up two days) — is an odd sign I saw in a station some years ago.

You also mention the Lake District in your epistle. I love the Lake District. Have you ever been to the same spot at different times of the day? It’s amazing: the colours are glorious.

I don’t know why, but I feel that I should raise the issue of pot holes. Where I live, the local Sainsburys (a supermarket chain) is accessed by what I assume is one of the unadopted roads you talk about in your letter. It’s full of pot holes. Driving down the road is quite a traumatic experience, because you either risk head-on collisions by trying to avoid the pot holes, or risk ruining the car’s suspension by trying to avoid head-on collisions. Well last week the Committee of the local Pot Hole Preservation Society must have been giving themselves a massive pat on the back, because the largest pot hole was filled and overflowing with rain water. It looked like Lake Superior, and was just as deep.

The Society has been very active. Cycling to our local park similarly involves avoiding a large pot hole and nearly being mashed by oncoming cars in the process.

And on the subject of roads, cats eyes and committees, I came across this rather terrifying indication of wanton cruelty to animals on one of my travels in Suffolk:

Photo by Terry Freedman

Now what sort of depraved person would even do that, let alone advertise the fact?

The book you mention, Dear Committee Members, looks brilliant. And the good news is that my local library has it. The bad news is that I can’t place a hold on it because my library login has stopped working. No idea why.

I have never read Adrian Mole or Bridget Jones. The only diary books I’ve read are Diary of a Nobody, and parts of Samuel Pepys Diary, which he was good enough to put online:

The Diary of Samuel Pepys: Daily entries from the 17th century London diary

I like the way he writes, with sentences like “Then by coach, set my wife down at the New Exchange, and I to White Hall to the Treasury chamber, but to little purpose.”

I’m sorry that you are having to write your letters with crashing and banging in the background. I’m writing this with some upbeat jazz music playing on YouTube.

Do you like jazz, Rebecca? There are several kinds of jazz. There’s the 3am smoke-filled club, newspaper blowing down the dimly-lit street kind of jazz; the timeless (literally — no timing in the usual sense of the word) jazz of John Coltrane; there’s the soul-like jazz of Ronnie Laws; and of course there’s jazz funk, which borders on disco. Here’s a nice jazz number you might like. It’s not the kind of music that people normally associate with jazz, which can be summarised as “any note will do”. Enjoy!

And if you prefer a blast from the past, there’s this:

What sort of music do you like?

I have to go. There is a cup of tea with my name on it, and a Star Trek episode with my name on it, and a Saki story with my name on it. My name seems to be on a lot of things these days.

I look forward to receiving your reply. Happy whingeing!

Your friend

Terry

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