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– namely Janey Peters – who stole her boyfriend TWENTY YEARS AGO. You’ve got to hand it to Mum, she knows how to play the long game. I’ve popped some sweets and magazines into a parcel for you along with one of my books – But That’s Not What I Meant. You might not have time to read it, what with being on the brink of war and everything, but if you do, feel free to give me a proper review (an honest one).
Ciao, Bella!
Aggie
P.S. Yes, I did keep away because of Simon. Your dad mentioned he’d moved to Australia for a while, which must have been a terrible shock. I know how much you all adore him.
From: Wright and Longstaff Solicitors, Exeter
To: Rosanna Hughes
Dated: 3 January 2003
Read: 7 January 2003
Dear Mrs Hughes
Please find enclosed a copy of your Decree Nisi.
We have received an offer of £245,000 for Rose Cottage which Mr Fletcher would like to accept. In accordance with your last instruction we will proceed with the sale. The equity will be split between yourself and Mr Fletcher as per the divorce settlement.
Please find enclosed your updated Last Will and Testament as per your instructions. Please sign where indicated and return one copy to me at your earliest convenience.
Kind regards,
Justin Grant
‘E’ Bluey
From: Aggie
To: Rosie
Date: 7 January
Me again!
Oh, my good Lord! I’ve just had phone sex with the Irishman. Gorgeous voice. I was worried he would sound like Gerry Adams, but no, his accent was soft and sexy. I tried to sound less northern and more like a BBC news reader, but as it turns out, panting sounds the same whatever the accent, so I think I pulled it off. The next time we do it, I’m going to wear something sexy and lay on my bed so I can get into the mood a bit more. There’s something a little disturbing about having phone sex while wearing rabbit slippers and watching Midsomer Murders on mute, but I have a hundred per cent success rate at guessing the murderer by the first set of adverts and I’m not prepared to let it slip now. So anyway, don’t judge, but I’m meeting Paddy (do you think that is his real name?) in Venice tomorrow for one night – how bloody impulsive is that!? I’ve got a good feeling about this one.
Ciao, Sweetie, or as the Irish say, ‘may the road rise.’
Aggie
P.S. Shit, I hope these letters aren’t proof read by the Army.
P.P.S. Guess what? I was going through some old journals yesterday and found that bucket list we wrote together when we finished in upper sixth. It’s brilliant, but we weren’t nearly as adventurous or sanctimonious enough. I’ll write it out for you in another letter – can you believe we actually signed the ‘document’ IN OUR OWN BLOOD!
Bluey
From: Rosie
To: Aggie
Date: 8 January
Hi, Aggie
Very quick one. Can you do me a big favour, please? A few years ago, I bought Dad a snow shovel from the Wednesday market and he loved it. It had a black, plastic shovelly bit with a wooden shaft, but the handle was made of cork which he really liked. The thing is, I broke it when Josh and I used it as a sledge on Hound Tor. Can you do me a massive favour and go to the market and see if you can buy another one? If you do manage to get one, please can you rough it up a bit and leave it next to the compost heap (behind the pile of old slates which are behind the greenhouse) and let me know when you’ve done it. I’ll write again tonight.
Love, Rosie
P.S. You mentioned tripping off to Scotland as a throw away remark. What’s that about?
Bluey
From: Rosie
To: Aggie
Date: 8 January
Hi, Aggie
Oh my God, the bucket list! Signing in blood was your idea, but it was easier for you because you only had to tear the scab from your elbow (a roller skating incident I think?) but I had to cut my finger with a fruit knife. We must have been mad. I can’t wait to see what we put.
Sorry about the abrupt letter re the snow shovel but Dad gets a bit precious about his stuff and I wanted to get the letter into the post straight away. Your letters are sometimes printed off on the day that you type them, which is amazing, but I’m guessing my hand-written ones take a few days to reach you? You asked for some detail of my life in the desert, so here’s a potted history of my first week.
We landed in Kuwait City late in the evening on 1 January. After the aircraft taxied in, I ducked down to glance through the window, half-expecting to see the usual airport goings-on, but found myself watching RAF personnel (with their respirator cases attached to their belts) unloading the aircraft. Even though I’m carrying my own respirator case and a pistol, the possibility of being subject to a gas attack suddenly seemed very real. We disembarked the aircraft and were shepherded through a series of tents (the in-theatre arrivals process).
Absolute silence.
No one smiled. I don’t think any of the other people on the aircraft (soldiers, mainly) even looked at me. I was issued with NAPs tables (Nerve Agent Poisoning), an atropine pen (in case of chemical attack), some very strong anti-biotics (in case of biological warfare) and ten rounds of ammunition, which I shoved in my ammo pouch. Arrivals procedure complete, I was bundled onto a knackered, cold coach and taken to British Army Headquarters.
I have absolutely no idea how long that journey took. Again, no one spoke on the truck and no one greeted us on arrival at the camp, either. The guys disappeared off and I stood there, alone. It was the middle of the night. I was exhausted and had absolutely no idea where to go or what to do. I put on my head torch and walked down an avenue of tents packed full of soldiers who were sleeping on camp beds or on the sand. One of the tents I passed had a gap between two soldiers big enough to roll out my mat, so I fell to my knees, dropped down my rucksack, got out my sleeping bag and tried to sleep between the two soldiers, but desperate for a pee, I couldn’t sleep. It was so bloody cold, too. You would think, being a Met Forecaster, I would have clocked how cold it gets in the desert at night in winter, but I’m clearly an absolute amateur.
At around 6am, everyone got up. I waited for the tent to clear before putting on my Bergen (AKA rucksack) because it’s embarrassing. Although I scaled down my kit to practically zero before leaving the UK, picking up my heavy Bergen is a major operation. I have to kneel next to something I can hold on to, hook the straps over my shoulders and then use every bit of strength I have in my legs to stand. Walking is simply a case of forward momentum overcoming gravity. Anyhow, I followed in the direction of the masses and found the portaloos, cleaned up as best I could with wet wipes, went through the whole palaver of putting my rucksack on again, then asked an American where I might get some breakfast and was pointed in the direction of the chow tent. Then, finally, I was pointed in the direction of HQ, where I spent an hour looking for someone who could give me some pointers.
Basically, in terms of delivering a met forecast, I’m on my own.
Regarding the set-up here, it’s all a bit Heath Robinson. Everything the American military have is state-of-the-art, but the same cannot be said for us Brits. Our HQ is a marquee-style tent which saw its best in Churchill’s day. There are two British armoured brigades in theatre. They have set up camp somewhere else in Kuwait – as have the Paras – and we will also have Royal Marines in theatre, but they are also elsewhere just now. Fox News plays on a big TV on permanent loop in HQ, so I know I’m not telling you anything you don’t already know, although I haven’t been briefed regarding what I can and cannot include in my letters, so sod it. It’s really quite odd watching the news to see the