NOT Beaming Down In a Red Shirt!

Dear Juliet

Hi honeybun!

Okay, I did have two calls this evening but unlike a redshirt in Star Trek, I'm safely back.

In that case, I think I'll take a small risk and say this:

Also unlike a redshirt, I'll come back from London without a scratch. God help the British government, though! Another minister and a defence secretary have just resigned so you'll probably see the latest UK government collapse just as I'm pulling out of Victoria coach station.

Happy days...

Anyway, the fact that you're loved for who you are, good and bad bits included, is pretty much carved in stone for all eternity. A book's permanence and longevity is one of the few absolutes. I regularly handled print-only books which were nevertheless four or five hundred years old at Corehouse. I even sometimes sum up Dear Miss Landau as the Daleks: no matter what you do, one of the little buggers survives somehow...

So I'm afraid it's forged in titanium for all time that you were truly loved for who you were, not some Hollywood image.

Sorry about that!

It also occurred to me to remind you that there is an audiobook version of Dear Miss Landau, and I think that might help. It's not the actual physical me, after all, it's a recording from thirteen years ago.

You're maybe feeling guilty or conflicted that you're not getting over Tony Head's passing quickly?

Don't be.

It took me about a year to start to feel better after Mum died, and Dru can tell you about the Victorian custom of mourning deeply for a year and a day. I always thought that sounded like a reasonable and poetic timeframe.

You could even wear a black armband for a while? I'm quite serious.

Actually, Drusilla herself was in something like your situation in Graveyard of Empires, but I think I'll leave any discussion about that for another day.

You are loved.

Love,

James