6. Dear St Patrick

Dear St Patrick,

I passed a man on the street yesterday who was telling a girl that you killed a dragon and saved all Ireland.

If he hadn’t been trying to get into the girl’s pants I would’ve stopped and corrected him.

Yesterday was your name day but today I have passed not one but three people wearing green.

I wore all green yesterday and today I am green under my eyes from too much Guinness and too little sleep.

I’m a great ambassador for your name day.

But I wonder if you would be pleased by how we celebrate. It’s all very Christian still. We share a hearty meal, we drink deep draughts of the cup, and we listen to uplifting music.

There is, it’s true, perhaps a little idolatry with the worship of leprechauns, but all the poets have taught us that the Irish are very attached to their gentle folk.

Of course, St Patrick, I must admit that we do not always show our reverence, calling the day instead San Paddys, or Paddys, or even, I’m a little ashamed to say, Guinness Day.

I’m not sure if you’d be pleased with the spectacular success of that Irish black gold all around the world on your day; it has reached places even the word of god has not.

I think, Patrick, that if you were here today you would have to slay a dragon and it’s name would be Guinness.

Slainte,
Me.

5. Dear Aliens

Dear Aliens,

When you come visit from space and step upon our beautiful bountiful Earth you may look about yourselves and be agog at our fantastic buildings and magnificent vistas and compare them to the barchan dunes of Mars.

You may look at our hairy skin and the fur and scales of our animals and notice the differences to your own gnarled and ratchety exteriors.

You may wonder at our small front-facing eyes and our non-scent-susceptible central noses and our ears with white strings dangling out of them.

What could those white strings be for?

Perhaps your scientists will postulate that they are some sort of shielding mechanism to protect us from the harsh rays of the sun penetrating our holey ozone.

Or, noticing that they often terminate in our trousers, your biologists will theorise that they are a reproductive device.

A rebel group of social scientists may controversially speculate that they are drug dispensers, regularly tranquillising us and keeping us moderate.

Or maybe your alien anthropologists, commenting on their distribution, will deduce that they are symbols of wealth and are  used to attract a mate.

Aliens, when you see our dangly white things, I think all of your theories will be correct.

Me.

4. Dear Green Bus

Dear Green Bus,

I admire your waist to ceiling windows and I know enough about engineering to admire your structural ingenuity.

I like your red arrows which show which way is forward, and I like your green pants and wheels and hat.

But, Green Bus, I can’t help thinking that you’ve chosen that lovely lurid green to convince me that you’re environmentally sound.

BP did the same thing years ago.

I’ll bet, Green Bus, that your researchers found that some reasons why people switch to buses is to use less petrol, to save money and to be environmentally sound.

Green is a good colour for all of these.

It also means go.

Do you remember a time before marketing research, when people sold goods instead of packaging?

No, I dont remember it either.

That must have been back in the days before buses kneeled on request and when black people had to catch different buses or sit up the back. You would know, Green Bus, was there ever a time when women werent welcome on your seats? I suppose buses have been the prerogative of the white working classes and working class women have always had more freedom than classy women or black folk.

Green Bus, I’m no environmental fairy myself, but I dress the part so I can’t talk.

I am then, your fellow green mask wearer,

Me.

3. Dear Sun

Dear Sun,

In London you wore a deep burqa. For so long you hid yourself in voluminous veils that I barely knew you anymore. I missed you. I longed to see your face again and I grew pale.

You tease. You showed me your legs in Bratislava which made me sweat so much that my orange skirt turned white with salt. But then you abandoned me in Suzhou. You wore a titanium spacesuit so thick that I couldn’t see even the blue of your skies.

Oh wicked wench. I who have never flirted with sunbeds, nor fake tan, who have ever been loyal to your pure caress, you swaddled yourself and I turned grey like everyone else in that awful city.

But I survived.

For the first four months in Wellington the wind chased me through the streets and I forgot about you. I faded. You were gone.

When I walked the Hutt River I thought I might run into you. I thought it but didn’t prepare myself, and, of course, one kilometre in there you were. Very alive and very naked. Barely a wisp of ozone separated your celestial body from mine. For hours you poured your lovely love onto me and I bathed in it.

Sun you were the best and surest lover I’d ever had until I started roaming the globe. And now you have followed me here to the bottom of the world and you abuse me.

I am pink all over.

Yours,

Always,

Me.

2. Dear Drunk Destitute Lady

Dear Drunk Destitute Lady,

Today when you got down on your knees and looked under our table for cigarette butts, I looked down at my sandals, which I'd kicked off, to make sure you didn’t take them.

I’m ashamed of that.

What I really wanted to do was push the ashtray closer to you so that you could take of the generous pickings the people before us had left behind, but I didn’t know how to do that without insulting you.

I wonder about you. I called you a lady but I don’t think you are or ever were. You have never had five servings of vegetables a day. You are constantly hunting, hunting for scraps of food, of cigarettes, of alcohol, of a diluted sort of love.

I wonder, lady, never-lady, did you ever use your body as credit? Do you see your scrawny unhealthy frame as an asset?

I wonder how you got here, on your knees, barefoot, an enormous yellow jumper, so drunk or high that you can only walk in a curved line.

A friend of mine said that there aren’t any old junkies, but you look old to me. Your parched skin looks older than I know it is. I wonder, lady, will you get any older. Do you want to get older? Maybe you can’t get any older than you already are.

If I see you again I will push the ashtray towards you. You make my insides so old with sadness.

Lady,
your humble servant,
me.

1. Dear Soap

Dear Soap,
If, when you squirt out green and squishy in my palm, you destroy all the bacteria in my entire body and then replace it with aloe vera and olive oil, can I really expect to be the same person I was before I bathed in the green waters of your fountain?

When you and I have danced together I sniff my hands and discover that my hands smell like the milk of certain vegetables. I must admit that I did not know that vegetables had milk.
Soap, every day at least once I must wipe a congealed glob of green from your spout like you were a three year old child with a constant supply of snot. Both the child’s nose and your childish nose amaze me. Where does it all come from?
The child has a mother with an equally steady supply of tissues concealed in her bosom or purse, but, Soap, when I wipe your spout I use my bare hands. That’s love, that is.
But Soap, I confess, it’s coming to an end. Soon I will have used all I can of you and I will move on. I’m avaricious that way.
I’m not sure I should tell you this. I think, as the classless Americans say, that it lacks class. But I need you to know that I’m moving on to jojoba and honey, a pus-coloured near-relation of yours. I just don’t think green is an appropriate colour for soap.
In the meantime, I remain,
Your affectionate,
Me.