Dear Julie

I love you I do.
You're great.
I loved you from ages ago.
Because you make me laugh, and you do girls, and I always hoped maybe you'd make me laugh and do me.
Not that I fancied you. Because you had this really big face, and always looked like you couldn't give a shit what you looked like. Which I don't believe is true. Or maybe it was, maybe whilst I was a fat kid being funny, you were a fat ugly kid being really funny, and that's why you're a great writer and I've morphed in middle class navel gazing and 'I'm not as good as her, and if I'm not as good as her then I don't want to write', feet stamping.
You went off and got all the girls, and the men, with your big funny looking face and wit as sharp as Dorothy Parker. I just went on diets a lot.
Then the realisation dawned that I did fancy you after all, and you wouldn't have had me anyway cos whilst you were off getting big and famous and having words like 'grand dame' written about you, and publishing novels; read by people like me who love you so much we'd read anything you serve us, you'd gone and got a new fella, and been immortalised by websites called stuff like chavsandproud.com, and wedogirlswedo.com, and had shrines made to you and more words written about you that even your own prolific pen could produce, and were so out of my league that I didn't even realise writing for The Times was cool. Until you did it.
So now you won't make me laugh and do me.
But maybe you'd be my mentor?

Julie (how weird is that?)!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!