Dear Words

Specifically, Dear Words in my Head.

Why do you have to fly around like confetti at a wedding making no sense to me or to my fingers which are trying to interpret you into something sensible and logical that could be called a sentence?

Why are there so many of you tumbling like leaves in the autumn wind? I don't have an enormous vocabulary so how is it possible that so many of you exist? Unless you are secretly cloning yourselves up there, conspiring to further confuse me.

Occasionally you hint at something that could be useful, like a to-do list, a blog post or a multi-million pound best selling novel that is just crying out to be made into a box-office hit. I know they are all hiding in there, particularly the to-do list which, unless it can escape and metamorphosise into the written word, will stretch and grow and twist and knot itself to the point it makes me rather ill (in the stressed out kind of sense).

Meanwhile, I grasp at the few moments in my day which are uninterrupted by children's demands, and try to purge my brain of a few words that may make someone smile, or nod sagely in understanding. My brain struggles for air as it drowns in literary flotsam and I manage to cough up a tweet. It is however not worthy of a reply or retweet. It is just a belch of words that are commonplace and unremarkable save for their indelible mark on the web.

I really need to find some space where I can set some of you free, make your own way into the world and release the pressure that is mounting. Because the pressure is mounting, and if I can't find the release valve there will be an almighty alphabetti spagetti inspired blog post flying across my readers screens.

Or is this already it?

Yours desperately trying to clear some head space so if you could just sort yourselves out into a semblance of order that would be great,

Me

Dear So and So - The Being Brave Edition

Dear Papworth Hospital,

I've heard great things about you. If you could just keep that reputation up for the next few weeks, that would be fabulous.

Yours, a rather nervous patient's daughter.

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Dear Surgeon,

Please get an early night. Please eat a healthy, slow energy release, cereal-based breakfast. Please don't be distracted by what might be on TV later, the new Boden catalogue or whether your cat is pregnant. Please focus. Please concentrate. Please. Thanks.

Yours, the daughter of the woman you are operating on this Tuesday.

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Dear Mum's Heart,

I know this probably all looks a bit scary from where you're sitting (and frankly from where I am too) but this is seriously going to make everything a whole lot easier. I know it feels like you are trying to suck an extra thick McD's milkshake up a very thin straw. Well soon your straw will be a nice big thick one.

Yours, an expert on McD's milkshakes.

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Dear Mum,

Do what the doctors tell you. I know you wont want to get out of bed and climb those daft pretend stairs that lead to, er, well, nowhere, but do it. Don't use the excuse that you live in a bungalow and wont need to climb stairs, there are stairs in the outside world. It will be worth it.

Yours, your bossy stubborn daughter.

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Dear Dad,

She's gonna be fine.

Love you. x


Thanks to 3 Bedroom Bungalow  for the linky x

Dear So and So - The Bad Tempered Edition

Dear Madam,

Because yes, you were a madam, an ignorant obnoxious madam who rightly deserved a very pointed "WELL EXCUSE ME!" when you took up the whole pavement and just stood there glaring at us when we, the stroppy woman pushing a pram, dragging a dog, nagging a boy and ignoring stroppy pre-schooler, were trying to maneuver along the narrow pavements. Funnily enough, you are not more important, more worthy or more superior than me, and do not own the rights to the pavement.

Yours, The stressy woman pushing a pram, dragging a dog, nagging a boy and ignoring stroppy pre-schooler.



Dear Sir,

You know when you saw the Princess having a strop in the middle of town, and you said "Oh, I'm sure it's not that bad.", and I grunted a bit, and then you said "Don't worry. Mummy will buy you some sweets." Well, as much as you thought your actions were well-meaning, they were not helpful.

Yours, The stressy woman pushing a pram, dragging a dog, nagging a boy and ignoring stroppy pre-schooler.



Dear Madam (2),

I know my pram was blocking the shop door. I know I was distracted by a rather lovely biscuit tin in the baking shop. I know it is normally customery to move out of the way if someone says 'Excuse me.'. But do you think the way you said ' Excuse me' with a heavy emphasis on the 'ME' with your hands thrown up in the air and a distinct air of huffiness is polite? No, me neither.

Yours, The woman who sarcastically said "Oh I am soooo sorry if I was in your way."



Dear Sir (2),

You know you work in a charity shop, where customers come to spend their money, so that the charity that you volunteer for can earn vital funds to support further research, fund hospices and pay nurses to care for the sick. Well, do you think that it was ever so slightly rude to push me out of the way and perhaps counterintuitive to rearrange the book shelves as I browsed them with the absolute intention of spending money in your charity shop? Just wondered.

Yours, The woman who muttered something about customer service as she huffed out of the shop.



Dear Charity Shop Volunteer,

No not the rude one who thinks alphabetising the book shelves is more important than selling books. The lovely one, in the next charity shop, who was so chatty and grateful for the donated childrens clothes. Thank you for restoring my faith in 'giving'.

Yours, The woman who smiled and complimented your customer service and will henceforth donate all her childrens cast offs to your charity.




Dear All,

I promise to try to be more patient and understanding and less bad tempered, if you do.

Yours, Me.




For more Dear So and So letters get over to 3 Bedroom Bungalow where she collects them :-)