Róisín Ingle on the love letters she’ll never send
Dear stunning model I met 20 years ago at the London Hippodrome,
I couldn’t believe it when you said you wanted to come to the party with me. Later that night you placed my hand under your T-shirt and that was the first time I understood what people meant when they put “washboard” and “stomach” in the same sentence. Your hair was soft. You smelt of spring. We lay on a cold kitchen floor, your chest a sculpted pillow. In hindsight, your decision to sneak away before dawn was a sensible one. I think I’d probably have killed you/kept you locked in a broom cupboard for all eternity rather than let you out of my sight.
With fondest regards,
Me x
Sweet S,
Looking back it was all a bit odd. Mostly we just ate popping candy and read books about the Krays in the rain. I was probably too old for you. I was definitely too messed up for you. You broke up with me in the kindest letter I’ve ever been given. “You don’t want a boyfriend you want a husband,” you wrote. Two years later I was married. Have you ever thought of telepathy as a career? I think you should.
Hope all your dreams came true,
Me X
Dear Sugru,
Malleable, mischievous Sugru
You make me feel
Four years old again
As though I’m back in Miss Price’s class
Listening to Frog Went A Courtin
Making mala fruit for a mala fruit basket
One day, I bought hooks in the shape of dogs
Then decorated them with you
I gave the dogs Dalmatian spots and high-heeled shoes
I felt like Michael Angelo or Tony Hart
Instead of buying a new dustpan and brush
I fixed it using an orange piece of you
My brother says “just use a strong glue, you eejit”
But he can’t see
All the other stuff you bring to the party
The best things about you are
1 You were invented by an Irish woman
2 Timemagazine thinks you're the business
I keep a bumper pack of you in my bedside locker
For emergencies
Four colours
Unending possibilities
I love (Sugr)u
Dear younger man I brought to my debs,
I’m not saying the only reason I brought you to my debs was because you were the best-looking person I knew and I wanted to look good in front of my peers but . . . actually, in fairness, it was the main reason. I also expected a bit of a snog, being honest. I was probably a teeny bit Debzilla, especially when I dragged you to an empty Leeson Street nightclub in a deranged manner at 1am to procure the kiss which never happened. I can still see the fear in your incredible eyes. I see you are now following me on Twitter. I followed you back. But don’t worry, that’s (probably) as far as I’ll go. X
Ex-husband,
I can’t believe I haven’t seen you since our marriage fell apart. This is a small town, but big enough for us to avoid each other. Sometimes I wonder if you ever saw me walking down the street and turned the other way before I spotted you, anxious to avoid an awkward conversation. Next time say hello, would you?
I still think of you fondly. I don’t regret any of it, even that St Valentine’s Day when you first told me that you didn’t think you loved me any more. That sounds as though you were callous, but you weren’t. I forced the admission out of you because I needed to hear it, on that day more than any other. I hope you have the happiness and true love you deserve.
Nostalgically yours,
Me xxx
G’day blond-haired New Zealand miner,
Thanks for helping me get over my husband leaving me. I left, like, a gazillion messages for you at the reception of the hostel you said you were staying at so that we could do it all again the following night. You were staying at a different hostel entirely weren’t you? Thought so. Still, thanks. x
Dear Iranian man who I went off with on the back of a motorcycle one night,
It could have worked. If you weren’t living in a squat. If you didn’t smell of hash and petrol and something less identifiable that I don’t really want to speculate about. If I didn’t suspect there were things living in your hair. If when you tried to kiss me you didn’t say “I like fat chicks”. We could be married now. Shame, isn’t it? Happy Valliers.
Love Me xxx
