![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
commonpeople1The last e-mail I received from my lawyer in West Africa arrived on Saturday. This is what Mr Lawrence said:
I didn't reply. What could I have said? Igor was gone and now it was a matter of waiting until he successfully crossed the seas and arrived in Lagos.
This business deal may have been a big mistake: since Igor's departure a heatwave has struck London - it's as if a curse has fallen on me due to my faithful friend's departure. I lie now in my crypt all day, tossing and turning, unable to sleep. I can hear the joggers pounding the pavement above, cycles ringing their bells, the laughter of happy people enjoying the blasted sunshine. It's doing me head in. And I seem to have developed hay fever - something I've never experienced in over a thousand years! I doubt puny human medicine will help at all so I've resorted to sticking tissue up my nose and hoping the bloody phlegm stops pouring out.
I rise from my restless days, though, to these beautiful dusks covering the city. Birds flying everywhere that remind me of the bats in my family's home, St George Castelo. A hedgehog staring at me from behind a fence, so much alike my childhood pet Mr Tiddywinkles. I'm adrift in memories and taken to walking Regent's Canal at night, casting my mind towards Igor and hoping that all is alright with him. The canal is strangely empty at night, as if bike riders and joggers know to stir clear of it (the one or two corpses found floating in the water may have been my doing, but surely that wouldn't put off Londoners?!) All this solitude is bad - it exacerbates my melancholia. Even my iPod has turned on me, playing one sad song after another.
Hurry my sweet Igor. Hurry and purchase that land so I can cross the oceans to be with you and start a new life. And don't forget my postcard.
Hi James,
Thanks for your email, i will be expecting mr Igor in lagos, nigeria so that we can see and discuss how the deal will take place.
Regards
Adams Lawrence
I didn't reply. What could I have said? Igor was gone and now it was a matter of waiting until he successfully crossed the seas and arrived in Lagos.
This business deal may have been a big mistake: since Igor's departure a heatwave has struck London - it's as if a curse has fallen on me due to my faithful friend's departure. I lie now in my crypt all day, tossing and turning, unable to sleep. I can hear the joggers pounding the pavement above, cycles ringing their bells, the laughter of happy people enjoying the blasted sunshine. It's doing me head in. And I seem to have developed hay fever - something I've never experienced in over a thousand years! I doubt puny human medicine will help at all so I've resorted to sticking tissue up my nose and hoping the bloody phlegm stops pouring out.
I rise from my restless days, though, to these beautiful dusks covering the city. Birds flying everywhere that remind me of the bats in my family's home, St George Castelo. A hedgehog staring at me from behind a fence, so much alike my childhood pet Mr Tiddywinkles. I'm adrift in memories and taken to walking Regent's Canal at night, casting my mind towards Igor and hoping that all is alright with him. The canal is strangely empty at night, as if bike riders and joggers know to stir clear of it (the one or two corpses found floating in the water may have been my doing, but surely that wouldn't put off Londoners?!) All this solitude is bad - it exacerbates my melancholia. Even my iPod has turned on me, playing one sad song after another.
Hurry my sweet Igor. Hurry and purchase that land so I can cross the oceans to be with you and start a new life. And don't forget my postcard.
