Love letters. And me.

I used to write long-winded and intricate love letters to my paramours once, and later, to my wives (of course, one at a time; those who know me will know that when I use the plural of ‘wife’, I mean in both my marriages, which did not, not to put too fine a point on it, run concurrently but in fact, appear serially in my life as yet lived). I have used paper, plastic, canvas, and various other media (including the electronic variety) to express my love (in writing and voice, never in drawing or painting; I am a horrible artist) for the past 35-odd years of my variegated life. In return, I have been at the receiving end of quite a few myself. Indeed, I still have most of them in my possession, though they are for my private consumption only. As you know, gentlemen do not kiss and tell. That said, the love letter, as a form of intimate and extremely private expression of an intimate and extremely private emotion, remains close to my heart.

I recently saw Operation Mincemeat on Amazon Prime. It is about a very real incident where the Allies, specifically two men and a woman from MI5 in the UK, created an elaborate deception involving a dead body and a briefcase carrying (fake) official letters that washed up on the shores of neutral Spain on a summer’s day in April 1943, and caused the Nazis to divert their forces from the southern coasts of Sicily, where the Allied attack was to come, to faraway Greece, where Hitler was mistakenly convinced (partly due to this deception) that it would.

While the movie itself is a bit of a hit and miss, with some fine acting and cinematography in fits and starts, but not to mince any words, bad screenplay writing and editing, making it hard to hold the audience’s interest (or their investment into the various characters in the plot) over the laborious 128 minutes of runtime, and I believe would have worked better as a short film of perhaps 28-30 minutes, what hit home, and stayed with me even after the movie was over, was the scene in which the fictitious Pam writes a love letter to the fictitious Maj William Martin, RM as he goes off to war soon after they have fallen in love. This letter, purportedly written by Hester Leggett in the movie, is read by Jean Leslie, the woman being wooed by both the men involved in the plot. The lighting for this scene, the background score, Kelly Macdonald’s (who played Jean) voice control, and the simple but emotive changes in the facial expressions of all four around the room, made it the most memorable scene in the entire movie.

For those who have not seen the film, I’d say this one scene makes it worth your while. Here is a transcript of the letter as read in that scene. I am sure it does not read as well as it sounds in the movie, within the context and acted out by those who are playing the characters. But, if you have a creative mind and an active imagination, perhaps you can see (and hear) what I did. Ideally, you could just watch the movie and see for yourself what I am going on about.

So, without much (further) ado, here it is:

My dearest Bill,

I think seeing one’s beloved off at the railway is the poorest form of sport. A train going out can leave a howling gap in one’s days, and one has to try madly and quite in vain to fill it with the things one used to enjoy.

Why did we have to meet in the middle of a war? For if it weren’t for this madness, we might be married by now, and I wouldn’t be in this dreary office typing minutes all day.

That last lovely golden day we spent together, I never wanted it to end. And I know it has been said before, but I do wish that time could stand still, even for just a minute.

So don’t let them send you off into the blue the horrible way they do these days.

Now that we’ve found each other out of the whole world, I don’t think I could bear it.

All my love…

Pam.

Now, I do not know about you, but as I watched this scene, it struck me that I have not written a proper, physical paper love letter or received one for so long that I cannot remember when I did so last.

And this long-winded post is about my fervent wish to be the recipient of just such a letter (accompanied by maybe a photograph of the sender in her finery), handwritten on personal stationery with a fountain pen, florally scented, hand-delivered (perhaps secretly in a book gifted to me or some such device of concealment, to be discovered by me and read in solitude at a later date), dripping with romantic visuals, lamenting unfulfilled sensual consummation, aching with the pathos of separation & longing, overflowing with declarations of undying love, and wishing for (offering?) a dream-like ideal future where the two of us are together and love & fresh air is enough, from a lady I have similar feelings for.

Now, is that too much to ask, I say?

Also, do you think the BattleCat can write?

P.S: Wouldn’t it be a wonderful business opportunity for someone with the gift of the quill to offer to write love letters for a fee? I don’t know if I’d get one written for myself though, for knowing that there is no flesh & blood woman who is mooning over me in reality and that this letter, however flowery and rich in literary value, was written for commission, may hamper my enjoyment of it. Nevertheless, it would be an interesting idea to pursue.