Hello my dears, my darlings, my sweet pulchritudinous flowers of youth and beauty,

Yorkshire is depressing in some senses. When I arrived here Monday the trip from Liverpool aeroport to Lime Street was soundtracked by a gang of ugly 14 year old toffs describing the fit and not so fit birds they had or hadn't been shagging. 'Fit', I ask you. The requirements for a sexual partner here have lowered to mere physical competence, and even that seemed to be optional for these young men. Also the weather is exceptionally shitty.

Yorkshire is the opposite of depressing in other senses. For example, it's fucking beautiful and for once in their lives my poor grandparents actually seem pleased to see me. I fucking hate winter, but I reckon in your nineties one really, really fucking odiates winter like it's got no clothes on and it's ugly and I think I've been managing to remind them spring is coming.

I miss you at home. I don't want to go home. I'm getting used to the idea that one way or another my brain is always going to be a little bit like Faye Dunaway at the end of Chinatown, screaming about her sister and her daughter. I guess at a certain point I'll just have to choose which way the tear runs, because I understand now I'm going to be torn.

Have you ever been in one of those moods wherein every verb you use seems to be sexually suggestive? Geeeeeeez . . .