A letter from an old friend. On the back of the envelope she has written, "Discovered un-posted".
The address, as has is usual with her letters, is a remote variation of my true address. The Royal Mail's forensic skills are extraordinary. And I am glad of it because Liz's letters are as entertaining as ever.
I am trying to reach someone at my bank who can answer a simple question. Recorded voices ask me to key in numbers, be patient, choose from a range of options remote from my needs. I feel, to paraphrase T S Eliot, that I "have lingered in the chambers of the sea,
by sad girls with seaweed red and brown,
till human voices wake me and I drown."