F - The myth of divine intervention at 20

Dear K,

If this reaches you, thank heaven!

I think it's high time I tell you a story. Note well that I've never
told this story to anyone else, not in all my days. I was nineteen and
a half years old, just past that. Almost everyone we knew was around
the old twenty year mark back then - why I'd assembled, a mon avis, the
most wicked collection of punks, rogues, vagabonds, outlaws, hussies
and religious zealots for my allies - and I loved them all with the
fires of heaven. You'll have noted that over the years I've professed
their many virtues less and less, and now I hardly mention them at all
- what happened, you may ask, to the Romanic wanderer Robinson, whose
mother I accidentally - nearly accidentally - troubled immensely with a
frightening impersonation of her daughter? What of Turtle La Trish and
her beloved cow, Tommy? What of the incomparable Manley? Sit back with
a glass of fizz and I'll tell you what happened in the long, dark
summer of my nineteenth year.

It was the year when I got my first proper job, remember? General
assistant at Alfredo's hair salon - rounding up little spirals of
copper, coal and gold lock with a broom and gowning the frothy trickle
of cream-topped ladies (who tipped me and smiled friendly, elastic
smiles at my incompetence) - arranging teapots and saucers in formation
on wooden trays and parading electric dryers up and down the salon.
That job wasn't enough to pay the rent, however, so I was hunting for
another one - at the same time cramming in hours of sticky-palmed
driving in preparation for my third test. Misery was making his descent
on my young corpse - my parents kept telling me to come and live in
"the real world" where people didn't sit around indoors all day writing
and guitaring - and I'd prepared myself for a banquet of writing over
the summer as well.

Anyway, under such conditions, I extracted more pleasure than usual
from writing letters. I always enjoyed writing letters anyway - I
imagined my correspondents' small bound of unexpected joy at receiving
one of my trademark bright yellow envelopes - it made me giddy with
rapture. I liked getting letters back too.

Anyway (I say again!) one day I went to the postbox at the bottom of
my road with a letter for Joe Hell - the culinary ballerina. I slipped
it into that dragon red pillar and was about to crunch my way back up
the road when it said something to me! In a mumblerous, tomby echo, it
said, "That letter isn't going anywhere, you know."

I said, "What do you mean?"

It said, "The gods of man have decreed it. You have been given every
chance to put your childhood behind you as happy memories, so that you
may labour beneath us like the rest of your kind, and you have instead
stubbornly held onto it with fingers of paste. You're now nearing the
age of twenty, and you leave us no choice but to employ desperate
measures. As of now I, Thyroid, son of Humerus, will be running your
life for you."

Naturally, I was indignant. "You can't do that!" I protested.

"Young man," the pillar answered, "we can do anything we like. None of
the letters you have sent these past weeks have got further than my
bowels, and for that you will soon be thankful. For as of now, you will
learn to live with real life! No longer will you find people
fascinating or complex or pretty, but irritating, arrogant and
tiresome. Which is what they are, my boy. Any unusual trait a person
has - and I mean any - is nothing but a nasty, pussy sore, an
embarrassment to themselves and you. To give you an example - your
acquaintance, Helen Craggs, whose letter you fed to me last Thursday -
her incessant cheerfulness and slight shortness of tongue is not
endearing, child - it is sickening! The rest - those who have no
irritating traits - they are simply boring. Do you understand
me?"

"But this is madness!" I spluttered feebly.

"They certainly aren't beautiful either (he thundered on) - either you
desire to sleep with them, red blooded male that you are, or their
faces are utterly uninteresting - or else they're ugly. You don't want
to say anything, naturally - more trouble than it's worth - but they
need to bury their heads in the sand. You're ugly too, you know. You
can tell from the way everyone so odiously leaps to contradict you
every time you suggest that it might be the case. Sly little beggars
just like to feel they're saving you from the truth. And you aren't
happy - let's get that one ironed out right now. Learn to face up to
it. Happiness is just a ruse you put on to please the customers in your
sorry little job. That smile of yours must be enforced thuggishly or
the world will come crashing down on top of you. Most importantly of
all, no more letters. Not another one, you hear? The sooner you put
these terrible, simpering acquaintances behind you and get yourself
some privacy, the better. You can marry if you like, but it won't last
- and we'll permit you to stay in contact with K and Sean, though you
are strictly limited to postcards, Christmas cards and evening visits.
And as I say, I, Thyroid, son of Humerus, will be handling your affairs
until you have reached a responsible age. Is that clear?"

"I can't live like that!" I sobbed.

"And if it moves, sue it!"

At that point a kid stopped by - asked me why I was talking to a
postbox and didn't I have any real friends? I told him the gods had
conspired to take most of my real friends away from me so that I could
get on with the business of getting old. Or I might have said don't you
have a home to go to, or something like that.

So as it happens, K, I'm looking for my lies. If you see them, get in
touch, as I've had it with this business.

So long and taketa carera,

Henstoat