Our eyes met across a crowded room. More precisely, my eyes met yours; you abstained from the moment, distracted by the glorious tweeting and chirruping of a passing robin. Nevertheless, life imitates art and art is far from perfect and this is possibly going to be the closest to a romantic fairytale as I am likely to get. I watched you: not tall, not blond, not blue eyes (Brown!). Perfect. I will skip the details; suffice to say that, to me, you represented (and still do) a chance at a romantic liaison. I hope you forgive my frankness. Below I present the letters written to you ever since that spark of unrequited amour imposed itself upon me.
It is with a quickened heart and flushed cheeks that I write to you today. You may find it a surprise to be receiving this letter; indeed, to date, we are yet to make an acquaintance. However I have been quietly surveying you for a few days now (imagine my delight upon first glimpsing your fair frame!) and am delighted to inform you that I have taken an interest in you!
I daresay I am gushing slightly. Allow me to collect myself. Today I sat in English class. We were studying the sonnets of our humble nation’s proudest son and, lo!, your face popped into my brain. Such a shock! I took a peek from the window to quietly observe the netball game taking place below, in the hope of catching you at play (I had recalled from previous observations that you partook in such an activity – indeed there was of course that one memorable Thursday when the game continued all throughout the rain!).
Such resplendent glory! Such bouncing delight!
Imagine my surprise (I am still puzzled) when I felt the curt crack of a ruler on my hand (fear not! for one is brave) accompanied by a less-than-polite remark to ‘cease and desist in the activities of a leering kerb crawler’.
Mother has always told me that the early bird catches the worm and so I must act, and soon! I have concocted a cunning plan with which to entrap you! By the time you read this, all will have been revealed.
Yours with a lingering longing,
My most profuse apologies! It seems my mind is not as cunning as I had once believed. I woke this morning at a suitably early hour and made my way to school via the old canal. I thought to myself:
“I am strolling lonely as a cloud, and you are a roaming daffodil, and you shall brighten my day with your yellow hue!” (This is most romantic; I must remember to inform you in person.)
I stood, by the school gates, awaiting your arrival with a daffodil secreted behind my back, ready to ambush you with my words of affection. I had even prepared a poem, which I present to you below:
Martin was a boy with a striving ambition,
To toil and to labour; find himself the position,
To show the quadrangle a love rarely seen,
And capture, enrapture the girl of his dreams.
I neglected, however, to note that you may not arrive early. Indeed, you did not arrive until second period (you are lucky enough to have the first free, it seems!). The early bird did not catch the worm on this occasion. Perhaps this was fortuitous, however, for we all know that only fools rush in.
Once again I find myself in English class, inspired by the great poets of ages gone by! I have questioned whether my work can be considered in the same breath as Shakespeare or Milton and am encouraged by the apparent disdain of our young teacher, Ms Bell; consider how many young artists were reviled in their own time! The future is bright; I just may have to expire first. Fear not!, for death comes to us all in different guises (come to think of it, I am only familiar with the black/robed/skeletal format… although we recently read the chilling ‘Macbeth’ - perhaps Burnham Wood may count? I don’t suppose it is an exact science. A wood doesn’t seem particularly menacing, however, although far be it from me to pass judgment on such a matter. Then again, I was never sure why Mrs Macbeth couldn’t wash her hands properly. My mother never accepted such a wishy-washy (although less of the washy!) excuse; I’m sure yours doesn’t either. Still, I digress.).
I am cut short, mid-thought, but to science I must proceed!
Yours with (daffodil!) abandon,
If I may, allow me to take your objections in turn:
1) A cloud may, indeed, cast an unwanted shadow over a daffodil, but it is also the bringer of much needed water, and thus, whilst it may rain on the daffodil’s parade, it is still giving the daffodil a lovely drink.
2) A daffodil cannot ‘roam.’ No, it cannot. I thank you for keeping me grounded on this point (much like the daffodil, hahaha).
3) Wordsworth did not ‘stroll.’ Now, there is no need to be a pedant.
Although my initial attempts to engage with your person have borne no fruit, I am in no great despair. Time is on my side. Not that it is taking sides; it’s just that I have a lot of it left (touch wood (although not Burnham!)). Imagine: me, just a young boy of 15! My biology teacher today informed us that the average life expectancy here in the UK is 83 years, so if I can’t obtain you in the next 68 years, well… I probably should have stopped trying but by that point I’d be dead so I shouldn’t think it would matter that much. Some of my peers are suggesting that one ought to live fast and die young; I am familiar, however, with the story of the tortoise and the hare – over-paced living leaves one sleepy, which seems like no great revelation to me.
I was thinking about this in the lesson today and I almost came up with a joke! Sadly, my wit escaped me at the crucial moment. Perhaps humour must be prepared. When I manage to secure a date with you, I must remember to jot down some witticisms I have overheard in order that I should appear entertaining.
Retrospectively (or hopefully futurespectively!) yours,