Dear Doris,

Your response to my last letter frightened me. It was the online equivalent of spidery writing and a faltering hand. You don’t seem yourself at all.

I realize a big birthday can be intimidating but attaining it is definitely better than the alternative. Perhaps we should go for the love balls after all, and to hell with the threat to the parquet?

Maybe, like Rupert Murdoch, Larry King and the Duke of Edinburgh you have been doing too much? I know it’s hard to slow down when you don’t really have a new generation you can trust to take over (it’s a shame that Kirsty never showed an aptitude for accessorizing, and of course the Chaffs are childless). Your work has been your life for so long it must be a wrench to let it go, but I am sure that Appleton Marsh won’t grind to a halt (how could anyone tell?) if you don’t open up on Monday. Perhaps you should sleep late, move the Parker Knoll to look out over Astrud’s green patch, and spend the day with little more than your memories and a party pack of Bombay Mix? Whatever you do, steer clear of Flo. She means well, but she does to birthdays what sobriety has done to Elton John–makes them a frightful bore.

Anyhow, I’ll be checking in on you over the weekend. Get lots of rest and go easy on the Avocaat. your friend Blabs.