Thursday, February 14, 2008

Worst Valentines. Ever.

Not today.

Eight years ago, when I was extremely single and living in a bedsit in Muswell Hill, I came downstairs on the morning of February 14th and saw, nestling on the doormat, a hand-addressed cream envelope with my name on it in copperplate handwriting.

I rushed across the hallway, overcome with excitement, and tore it open.

It was a letter from Roy Hattersley.

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