Dear Mum,
As you are fully aware, I take a great deal of pleasure in ‘catching up with my correspondence’ (namely you). Ideally, I would be sat in my own private library, overlooking idyllic natural scenery, with a limitless supply of crisp Basildon Bond sheets and a beautiful fountain pen.
Forster, Gaskell, the Brontës and other literary greats would peer from their shelves, inspiring my commentary and witticisms, constantly at my side if I require assistance in perfecting the art of a letter.
In reality, I am sitting in a cramped and dark room overlooking the neighbour’s guttering.
I’ve tried writing with a fountain pen and soon tired of having to change the cartridge, instead preferring the reliability and ease of a Tesco biro. As you know, even when using a guide sheet beneath the writing paper my handwriting strays into a curved narrative.
Furthermore, I have not yet faced unpacking my university boxes that currently accommodate Forster and friends.
I have thus turned to this new idea of ‘blogging.’
I say ‘new.’ I am aware I am the last of my generation to catch on. And I will undoubtedly be slowed down by the ‘L’ key on my computer no longer working. "Poor ‘ucy," I hear you say.
But here I am- your daughter, the English graduate, who has no idea what she is doing, but is going to share her experiences of the real world with you. You lucky whatsit!
Ciao for now x
