Letters or Lists

Diane, it is 7:42 AM, and at the risk of sharing a possibly uncomfortable amount of detail regarding my health and well-being, I have a stomach ache and constipation the likes of which I don't believe I have ever experienced. It rivals, but in my current opinion, does not surpass the intestinal distress I endured following that otherwise very enjoyable chili cook-off that Regional Bureau Chief Gordon Cole and I were invited to judge outside of Amarillo, Texas in 1987. You'll remember that one, Diane, it's where I got the sombrero.

As much as I would prefer to blame my current discomfort and inability to leave my room and head down to the Sheriff's station on some exotic Northwestern forest microorganism or on food poisoning transmitted via a ration of tainted proteins or under-ripe produce, I cannot, at least not in any semblance of good conscience.

No, Diane, I am laying on my blessedly comfortable bed here at the Great Northern Hotel on account of weakness. Not, I must point out, weakness of my constitution; as you know, I have a particularly strong stomach for spicy or unusual food, thanks to my extensive travels in the Far East. Unfortunately in this instance, it was a weakness of will and of resolve. You see, last night Sheriff's Department receptionist and all-around nice young woman Lucy Moran threw a pot-luck dinner.

Diane, we in the big city have no idea what a proper pot-luck dinner looks like. I know this now, and am paying the price. The primary culprit of my gastric discomfort being, if I'm not mistaken, the three-- or was it four?-- helpings of the finest mincemeat pie I have ever had the rapture of sampling. Indeed, if this is the way I'm going to go out, I will die a happy, if albeit extremely uncomfortable, man.

I believe I'm going to phone the front desk here at the Great Northern and inquire as to whether someone might procure for me some milk of magnesia, or at least some herbal tea. And tomorrow, I will fast so as to bring my body back to equilibrium.

Lastly, Diane, please call me back with the best way to get rhubarb stains out of white cotton shirts.

1. Pursue another university degree. After the first three, I have found that while I am still a reader and follower of knowledge, I do not have a proper scholarly disposition.

2. Invest money in any pursuit that is not a tried, tested and proven endeavour unless it is an innovation that I have been involved with from the beginning. I did not do well when the "dot-com bubble" burst.

3. Bring up the subject of children with Anne, even in passing. Neither of us is able to approach the topic with anything but the utmost dissatisfaction.

4. Travel to India. While the people were lovely, and Anne did look fetching in a sari, and while we did return with a most entertaining education in certain practices, my stomach prefers the Anglicised version of the cuisine.

5. Fail in any way in my responsibility to Anne as her lord and master. While I am no longer King, we have never considered altering our relationship in that regard. As she gives herself to me, I take care of her.

6. Not raise my guard to the utmost upon detecting the presence of another Immortal besides my wife. The close calls we experienced in the early years have ingrained this lesson deeply.

7. To that end, I will not relax my physical training with both hand and blade. I must be ready to meet whatever danger I and Anne might face.

8. Be the one to suggest a temporary additional bedmate. Without fail, when the idea comes from my beloved, the results are always far more fulfilling to all involved. She has an eye for such things.

9. View or read any supposed depiction of mine or Anne's lives with the expectation that somehow, someone has at last gotten things correct.

10. Marry anyone else but Anne Boleyn. Even during the times we have spent apart, never once has it occurred to me do devote myself to anyone but her.