Paul came in second -- second! -- at November Coronet.

I almost wound up calling him Highness for the next year.

Although I am proud of him for doing so well (and I knew he would), a small part of me is very glad I don't have to bow when he passes.

Well, not *have* to. But you know. For the sake of the game.

I don't know how I feel about the near miss.

It scares the crap out of me, truthfully.

Paul scares the crap out of me. *I* scare the crap out of me.

I've been writing and rewriting the letter to accompany his Christmas present, and crying over it every time.

I was desperately to avoid the 'crazy ex-girlfriend syndrome', but I want to communicate effectively how sorry I am things didn't work out, and how I hope he becomes happier than he was, without sounding crazy and desperate.

Susan is coming over tonight for tea. I will show her my latest draft, I think, and get an objective opinion.

Goddammit, I miss that man. I miss his solid advice and dry shoulder when my life is going to hell. I miss listening to him talk. I miss his crazy schemes, and the sound of his hammer as he worked on his armour. I miss his excitement over new video games. I miss the way he'd crack his knuckles before he held me. I miss trips to Tandy leather, and his friendly banter with the staff. I miss watching him play with children. I miss his searching kisses in the dark.

I even miss that creepy Smurfette lamp he kept on his windowsill.

Boys are stupid. Must stop thinking.

.

Rosie.

Before&After