Letters from my cottage in England, Letter no 3 Your words are my inspiration. Thanks. Normally I write while I'm watching telly; if possible without looking things up in a dictionary* and with as little effort as possible, because I am quite lazy. That way, it's not too hard and time flies. Well, normality has returned to our village, or at least nearly. My last letter finished with the sound of my doorbell (a present from an old family friend; I really need to think about this friendship: the melody is so cheesy…). I was wrong, it wasn't the couple from next door to the right who had come to ensure my silence, it was the woman from no. 4. She cried non-stop, saying over and over again “My littl'un, my littl'un*, he was brand new and so handsome, so handsome. Who would do such a thing?” For once she had lost her “Wicked Witch of the West” look (you are familiar with the Wizard of Oz in France, aren't you?) and I looked at her in astonishment. How could anyone love something like that? Suddenly she talked of calling the police! But I knew very well that that would be useless, that the person responsible had destroyed all traces. The police wouldn't ever seriously look for someone who had stolen such an ugly and, what's more, unwelcome item. The destruction of it was nearly an act of charity, our little cul-de-sac had been totally disfigured by the army of garden gnomes which “decorated” no 4's front garden. The last of these gnomes with its video camera (yes, it actually worked! ), was the drop which let the proverbial vase finally run over. What else could I have done? Bye for now!
* these letters were first written in French as a written submission * my little one
