Blackshapes

Here is something not from me. It's a scan of a letter I found outside Clontarf road dart station back during the summer. It appears to have been sent to a pal in the gaeltacht and didn't reach them in time. The teach address has been crossed off the envelope (not shown here) and the sendees home address scrawled in. I've been using it as a bookmark for ages and every so often take the letter for a read and give myself a laugh. I suppose I should freak them out and send it back with a Canadian postmark.







It seems to be written on some pre-used foolscap as if torn from a business studies jotter. I like the way the author has improvised around the content somewhat:



And who's in this newspaper clipping? Ray Parlour and son?


The letter encapsulates the similar sort of demented babbling you come out with to co-workers at a mind numbing job to keep yourself sane. The daft voices and catchphrase repetition that seem indescribably hilarious at the time. The sort of thing you enjoy on a clock-watching Friday afternoon and never speak of again.

Once I wrote this thank you letter to an auntie for some birthday cash she'd sent me but the letter fell out of my pocket on the way to the post office. I duly rewrote the letter as I remembered it and managed to send it off the second time without losing it. Later I learned that someone had found, stamped and posted the original letter and my aunt received two almost but not quite the same thank yous containing slightly different wording, slightly different takes on the same bits of news. It was the subtle differences between the two that freaked her out the most.