Dear God
I realise this correspondence is somewhat out of the blue, given that I’ve not been in touch since crushed velvet hats were fashionable and Spitting Image was still on telly (though I have since written a few letters to your colleague Santa Claus and I did leave the Easter Bunny a note requesting cash instead of chocolate) but following recent events I feel I really need to touch base.
Obviously you are quite busy at the moment, causing tsunamis and earthquakes and overseeing wars in your name etc, so perhaps a couple of your more recent decisions regarding my life are down to administrative error?
The bingo wings for instance. I’m thirty, not sixty-five for God’s – er, goodness sake. Also, is this moustache that I appear to be developing really necessary? I was expecting facial hair sometime around retirement, not in the prime of my life. I’m younger than Kylie Minogue and I don’t imagine her wandering around her bedroom with Veet on her top lip and her underarms flapping about like a pterodactyl.
I realise that you are a vengeful God and you probably noticed that last time I was in church, that Christmas a couple of years ago, I wasn’t in fact praying I was wishing the service would hurry up so I get back to the bucks fizz, but seriously, haven’t I been punished enough?
I note that you saw fit to give me the Worst Stretch Marks In The History Of Time, and I took it on the chin. Or the belly to be more accurate. I have come to terms with the fact that you seem to have chosen Relentless Grinding Poverty as my pre-ordained path. I have duly embraced Lydl and cast aside aspirations of shopping in Waitrose. I am resigned to the fact that my metabolic rate is more of a metabolic preamble and that I will put on weight if I even walk past a sausage roll.
All this, dear Lord, I take staunchly. But bingo wings and a moustache? Seriously?
I wonder if you would be so kind as to take a look at my file and ensure that there hasn’t in fact been a mistake and that these recent physical developments were not meant for someone else – Charlotte Church perhaps. People often get confused by our architectural surnames, though she’s even younger than me so perhaps there is a particularly un-hirsute seventy year old skipping about somewhere with suspiciously toned upper arms?
In the event that there has been a clerical error, I should be quite happy to receive reimbursement in the form of a large lottery win or a three-book deal with Random House. In the meantime I await your response and remain your loyal servant – well, sort of,
Charlotte.