In Defence of my Feet

My dearest Clarissa,

I feel the time has come to dispel certain rumours, little untruths,
that have arisen over the past few months to put the final nails in the
coffin of what you once so flamboyantly described as our "terminally
tortured affair." I am well aware of your opinion that Mr X, the
self-professed "worldly-wise" man in your office who believes himself
to be no small authority in matters of human nature, merely thinks he
is trying to help, and that he has some idea of what he is talking
about, but I feel there are certain areas where he has missed the point
most spectacularly. How he has formed this notion of his own self-worth
and mental aptitude whilst working in a tax office is quite beyond my
comprehension.

I must start by stating I have come to the abject conclusion from what
you have told me (for what else have I to go on, I never met, nor have
any intention of meeting Mr X) that he is, in no small way, in love
with you. I also wholeheartedly believe that it was his covert
intention to inject slivers of poisonous thought into your mind against
me. I hasten to add I in no way feel Mr X is my own personal "Iago",
the man has neither the intelligence nor status to warrant such a
comparison. However, I have to admit that his method has proved equally
as effective and as conniving in taking your love for me.

The way in which he proceeded to outline the "flaws in my character"
and then insert a version of his own "superior" facets leaves me with
little doubt that he meant to belittle me while concurrently enlarging
himself in your mind, the motive for which can only be, as far as I am
concerned, transferral of your affections. I have no way of knowing for
certain (although I can take an educated guess) if he has been
successful in this aim, but I am now positive it was intended from the
outset. In many ways I bear him no malice for this, you are without a
doubt an attractive, vivacious woman, who would confer pride to any man
who had you on his arm. What I do find disconcerting is your absolute
belief in this third party and his views about me, when all he had to
go on (as I him) was your description of events and mannerisms. As I
say, the poor man is evidently in love with you, and possibly incapable
of rational thought - you, my dear, should have known better.

His assertion that I do not "treat you right" has evidently struck some
chord within you. Your public declaration in the amusingly titled
French restaurant "Le Frog" a few Saturday nights ago that I was "not
worthy to lick his shoes" was particularly perturbing, and not a little
embarrassing. Such displays are no doubt better suited in bars of
ill-repute between those members of the public to whom vocabulary is of
little importance and not, as in your case, as you are about to tuck
into the marvellous lemon sorbet for which the chef of the
establishment is rightly famed. I had merely put across my view that
this man is trying to turn your head, and for that I do not apologise,
even if I now realise the timing may have been somewhat
unfortunate.

My suspicions that you had accepted to participate in an affair were
first aroused by your spectacular storming out of "Le Frog", and
finally confirmed when you did not return home until the next day with
no satisfactory explanation of where you had spent the previous night.
No doubt you adjourned to Mr X's house for him to provide a proverbial
shoulder to cry on, and bed to lay. However, even this does not truly
inflame any notions of jealousy or regret within me. The only thing I
grieve for is the appalling manner in which you have conducted yourself
and that you missed a rather fine dessert wine and upset numerous
members of the clientele and staff along the way.

No, Clarissa, what I really do object to are the marked changes in your
character and turn of phrase, no doubt directed by Mr X himself. I can
well imagine him using such expletives as you have been wont to utter
(or, rather, scream) in the past few months, as well as trite metaphors
such as "barking up the wrong tree." However, trying to convince me
that these were your own thoughts and phrases, and not adopted after
contact with an outside influence, is quite beyond the pale. Your
insistence that you have changed whereas I have not is especially
galling, for it is you who have been (note the very marked difference)
changed, and not for the better I may add.

I have never had any qualms about your protracted monologues rejoicing
in the virtues of capital tax, nor have I ever questioned your fondness
for inflicting small vendettas against those whose returns are not
filled out to your satisfaction, and yet you have recently, and
cruelly, picked upon every small fault I may have, and have been most
markedly vehement in your opinions of my feet. Yes, you have been a
caring and attentive lover, and have certainly made up for my lack of
prowess in the bedroom (and opened my eyes no small degree I may add)
and while I am grateful for your incredible tact at my noticeable lack
or proportion previously, I must say you were aware of these defects
originally and cannot start complaining now and using such distasteful
words as "girth". I have never used, nor would I ever dream of using,
such a term as "gusset" and yet you are nothing if not decided when it
comes to trying to out-crude me.

I have, at times, entertained the rather romantic fantasy whereby you
never had the opportunity to meet Mr X, although my acceptance of your
desire to work also incriminates me in no small way in this matter, or
at least that I could now somehow do something to remove this odious
person from existence (and I don't care if I now direct any bad feeling
towards him, the man is trying to steal my wife for God's sake.
Regardless of the fact that I do not possess full (or any) knowledge
about him, his personal hygiene or even any aspects of his character
that could be deemed agreeable, the simple fact remains that he is
trying to have away with you, Clarissa, you who are supposed to be
married to me, your husband.)

I have always provided for you, have never beaten you, or indulged in
alcohol, or taken lovers. At first I have to admit that I could not
understand why you would choose another after having professed, and
indeed displayed, a deep affection and love for me. However, it is now
distressingly apparent to me that matters such as those conducted in
the bedroom (or in fact, the abundant number of places you probably
choose to suffer your sexual liaisons these days) have turned your
head. I have long believed the fairer sex (ie women) to be shallow in
matters such as these, slack even, and have even heard rumours of
distasteful attempts at furtherance, especially with regards to career
paths, through the flaunting of female sexuality, but I never expected
it of you, my dear.

The question of size does stick in the back of my mind. As I say, you
were well aware of my possible (or indeed, actual) lack of downstairs
dimensions, before we were married, so am I to believe that when you
assured me that size did not matter, and furthermore, when you
proceeded to make such wild and, often off-puttingly, loud and
abandoned noises when we made love, you were not truly satisfied? Am I,
not to put too fine a point on it, to believe that you "faked it"? If
that is the case, then you are either an incredible actress, or I am a
terrible audience, whichever cap fits best. I do not wish to know the
gory details of my rivals' loins, or his prowess, you have already made
your points on those matters perfectly clear, I would merely like to
now go about finding the tools to remove the offending articles from
his body. You must forgive me, my dear, if I become carried away at any
point. You must realise that this is a very emotional time for me. I am
nothing without you (you could, I imagine scoff at this remark and say
that I am nothing with you - but then you have become a cold,
cruel-hearted bitch of the highest degree).

I should, I suppose, even thank this Mr X for taking you away from me,
for taking your love at a time in my life when I still have an outside
chance of finding someone else, but that would be both puerile and
pointless, and not a little untrue. I can at least put the removal of
your things from my suburban house to his fashionable city apartment
down to a midlife crisis, a pre-menopausal lapse into madness - a cruel
and depraved act for which you deserve to be burnt in oil. If you had
ever possessed the tact to at least cushion the blow with the age-old
clich? that it wasn't me, it was you, you would have, in a manner of
speaking, "hit the nail on the head." It was you who demanded too much,
expected too much, built up a false utopia inside your head that I
could never provide. However, I emphatically object to Mr X's
declaration that I did not provide well enough for you financially. I
always made sure you had enough money for clothes, food, and even some
small luxuries, and while I admit I may not be able to furnish you with
all the flamboyant gifts he has since bestowed upon you (although I
must say that mink is very much a fashion faux pas in this eco-friendly
age), for him to suggest that you were lacking when with me is quite
clearly not the case.

One further thing I believe Mr X has missed in his sly asides to you
(and do try to stay with me here, dearest one, I assure you that my
little list is nearly at an end) and that is the importance of such
matters as loyalty and not a little common decency. His loins may
provide for you in the bedroom, kitchen, bathroom, shady wooded areas
et al, and his equally bulging wallet may suffice when it comes to
material needs, but can he provide the depth of feeling that I can?
When he told you I was "an emotionally retarded psychopath", I truly
believe he was, in an unintentional moment of psychological
self-discovery, describing himself.

I know he has your body, my darling, but does he have your soul? Can he
ever, will he ever be able to say that with the slightest hint of
meaning, I wonder? I very much doubt you make him chase you around his
centrally-located penthouse like a feverish, passionate leper after
inflaming his desire and then leaving it unrequited, but I am positive
he will never be able to touch your inner self, and not just your -,
well, you get the point. I can at least console myself with the innate
knowledge that he will never have you as I have you, not now, or ever,
and that is the most important thing of all as far as I am concerned. I
do not even have a picture of you now, not after my small bonfire (the
bill for the damage provided by my housing agency will be forwarded
shortly after this letter), but I have my memories, and I have the
inner knowledge that you will always be with me.

And finally, I feel I must add a word or to in defence of my feet, the
feet which you consistently referred to as "repugnant" and "vile" and
"detestable" and which you actually added in your list of "Things I
hate about you" which I found pinned on the fridge after you left - not
only added, but underlined - several times, in fact. I recently went to
see the eminent physician Dr Y (note the title, my darling, something
that comes from education and learning, something in which your dear Mr
X is no doubt lacking, even if he is well provided for elsewhere) and
after a long and careful deliberation (and considerable debate I may
add) he admitted, in his own learned words and with his complete and
utter co-operation, that THEY ARE SUPPOSED TO SMELL LIKE THAT. So, in
conclusion, I hope you can in some way understand, as I do, that you
have been led astray - fed false information - and for that I bear
malice only towards my rival, and not for you. And, in point of fact, I
am sure you will come to realise that this whole unfortunate episode
has been little more than a mental and physical lapse on your part, the
memory of which will subside in the goodness of time. I cannot begin to
describe what you have put me through, it leaves me only to say, and I
think I can do so in all honesty, and with complete assurance that it
is only right and proper, please come back.

Yours Sincerely,