Briton Self

Mr. Self,

What a tremendous thrill and honour it is to be befriended online by such a wonderful and world-renowned talent such as yourself. A bit like sticking out your thumb to catch a lift and being picked up by F. Scott Fitzgerald. Only even more exciting.

I first read “Abbreviated Moments” on a train from Boston to Juneau in the summer of ’94. Nothing I have ever read before or since has filled me such a sense of awe. The apparent ease with which the novel captured the essence of the human spirit in all of it’s misery and joy represents one of the finest literary achievements in the history of the English language. I do realize that I’m gushing a bit here, but my sincere appreciation for your work cannot easily be put into words. Well, I’m certain YOU could find the words, but that is your genius, not mine.

I don’t know if you’re aware of this, but on the “YouTube” there is a video of your parents performing in a 1964 production of “Camelot.” Almost every morning I watch it as I eat my Weetabix with jelly. In point of fact, I’ve viewed it so many times I can now sing along with every line and have memorized the choreography (or in theatrical terms, “the blocking.”) I gave it a review of “four stars,” subtracting one for the subpar stage design that plagued many West End productions of that era.

Before I sign off, I have but one more confession. I hesitate to mention this, as it could easily be misconstrued, but while visiting London a few years ago on business I became consumed with the idea of finding you. Soon, with only a minimal amount of “detective work” I was able locate your residence. Upon doing so, I was immediately struck by a terrible case of nerves and so rather than ring the bell and risk embarrassment, I elected instead to hide in a rather large hibiscus bush on the other side of the road.
From my perch I spent the next eleven days watching the lights in your home flicker on and off, occasionally catching glimpses of yourself, Daphne