I do so hate nicknames, dear. Victoria is such a lovely name. Your father, my sainted brother, named you after his favorite fishing boat. Have I ever told you that? The minute you were born, he said, "I'll be glad to get this one launched." Wasn't that sweet?
Oh my. I've done it again. I haven't told you why I'm writing.
Why am I writing? Oh, yes. I remember now. I'm coming for a nice, long visit.
Isn't that thrilling? Are you shivering? I knew you would be.
As you know, Wales gets a little rainy in the autumn, so I am going to spend a few months with you there on the desert. I have already put the little kitties into quarantine so they can come with me. I knew you'd be devastated if you didn't get to meet them. The folks from Ripley's still don't believe that I have cats with thirteen toes on each foot, but I told them that since our ancestors left the coven after that nasty burning at the stake incident, nothing has been the same. So no flaming desserts, sweetheart. It's just a matter of respect. You understand.
I never believed any of those rumors anyway. A couple of flying brooms, a changling child or two, and everybody just jumped to conclusions. Besides, the Welsh can be so ill-tempered sometimes. Just look at Richard Burton. Even Elizabeth Taylor couldn't cheer him up, and that was even before the whole thing with Michael Jackson and the monkey.
Speaking of monkeys, I won't be bringing my William with me. He's going to bed and board with a lovely couple who have no children of their own, so I think he will be quite cozy, if he ever gets used to the little suit. I have explained that he's actually very comfortable in the altogether, but they are more traditional types and hold that a true gentleman always dresses for dinner. I will admit that the trousers have reduced the number of unpleasant incidents involving the flinging of unfortunate substances.
But I digress. I'm sure you're eager to know where I will be staying.
Why dear, I wouldn't think of spending time under any roof but yours. You know I'm not particular, although I do think that if the guinea pigs are reproducing again this visit, we might want to establish a separate section of the house for them. There's something rather unsettling about trying to drift into Dreamland with all those little squeaks and whistles piercing the darkness. It reminded me so much of when your cousin Basil was born. I was fine, but your uncle had a pint or two and got the stub of his cigar wedged sideways. It was a day or so before I realized anything in particular was wrong with him. Childbirth can be do distracting. And your uncle never was a man of too many words. (He was really your uncle by marriage, you know, so don't worry if he seemed peculiar. You're in no danger.)
By the way, you don't happen to remember his name, do you? It slips my mind from time to time, although I suppose they spelled out the whole thing on the papers after the inquest.
He died in the first known revolving door accident ever recorded in Wales. Got lost, and literally walked himself to death. When they came to tell me, I said, "Why didn't he just lift his feet and ride?"
A lesser man would have done that. But not your uncle. He had his own style. Just kept waving to people like things were just ducky, until he dropped and was dragged for miles before anybody noticed. The shop wasn't too busy, and nobody tried to get in before he'd worn the toes right off his boots. Made a right mess of the carpet, too. And it had been fairly new, although I believe it was a salvage piece from some hotel in London. Those Brits sell everything that's not nailed to the queen's arse, I swear.
Edgar? Was it Edgar? Was that the poor fellow's name? I know it will come to me. The incident certainly put me off pheasant under glass for awhile, though. I just couldn't touch it after he crossed over.
Okay, we were talking about where I would stay. I really don't mind being in your room with you. As I recall, your family seems to prefer that arrangement for some reason. Young people can be such prudes, can't they? Who would have thought they'd be put off by that little Fires of Beltane retrospect I put together a few years ago? You'd think they'd never heard of fertility rites. As I told your son after he quit screaming, "I'm old. But I'm not dead yet."
Speaking of dead, I'm just exhausted with the excitement of seeing you again. I've got lots more packing to day, and I want to copy down some special recipes to bring with me. I've got a recipe that was your grandmother's that I know you'll love. But then, anything cooked in a sheep's stomach is a special treat, I always say. And the Welsh sure know their way around the herd.
Don't miss me too much before I get there. I'll be wearing a red hat, although I'm sorry to say that my new tattoo isn't what I'd hoped for. I specified a Welsh dragon, but the fellow thought I said Welsh wagon, and I haven't figured out what to do with all the little wheels yet.
But I'm sure something will come to me.
Warm up the mustache wax because it's time for kisses from your devoted aunt,
Llewellyn ("Lew")
P.S. Edgar doesn't sound right. Ethan perhaps? Oh, well…
Copyright 2004 Jody Serey. All Rights Reserved.