Dear Friend,
I've recently met a girl. A wonderful girl, a beautiful girl, an intelligent girl. Well, I haven't actually met her, but I have seen her. And she isn't so much a girl either, but rather the topmost pinnacle of womankind. A lady, I may say. An actual lady.
Oh! whenever I see her, I'm filled to the brim with ardour, and yet she never so much as glances at me. The pain! Oh, the pain! Since Susie went away on maternity leave, she's been sitting there in Dictionary Corner, quiet and beautiful, radiating loveliness, sharing her bounteous knowledge with me, and yet not once sparing a glance. Somebody said they thought her a younger, quieter version of Carol. 'A what!' I cried in indignation. 'She's an entirely different species from old Vorders!' was the thought in mind. No, Alison is something entirely other. She's an angel, my friend.
I write to you now, asking you: What shall I do? Should I give it up now, to save my heart from breaking clean in two (or from being cleft in twain, as Hamlet's mother might have said), and thus now begin the healing process before too much damage has been done? Or shall I pursue it, clinging to the hope that my love will be reciprocated?
I leave it to you, yours,
Miblo del Carpio.
Word of the Week
Ardour
ardour n. zeal, burning enthusiasm, passion.
Definition courtesy of the Concise Oxford Dictionary
