Angelo's Letter

Claire stared at the letter she’d received earlier, recognising the handwriting on the envelope. Unsealing it, she began to read, oblivious to the scenery passing by.

Ciao Claire, my honey

My English is getting batter but please excuse the errors, most of the English words I’ve learned are related to food.

First the good news. I’ve found a job here in London as head chef so no more of making ends meat. Now that I’m making lots of dough it means we can be marinated next year in your local church, like we agreed. I want you to make the arrangements and I will look for a nice house here. I’m looking forward to starting a family, two or three little buns in the oven.

My co-workers come from all woks of life. One is a real fruit cake and such a nervous wierdough; I really don’t think he has any inner peas. Another looks like a cereal killer. He has shifty eyes, some missing teeth and a very shellfish attitude. The sous chef is a real nut case too, but he is very well bread and does grate things with cheese. They all loaf around rather than work. I’m surrounded by noodles and nimcomsoups and I really think I doughnut belong here amongst these strange London people.

The barman is a difficult person and has a real chip on his shoulder. He scares me, so I am trying to curry favour with him. This afternoon he argued with a waiter, who got into a right stew and told the barman to butter off. The barman went bananas and tried to punch him. I made them both apologise, it was the yeast they could do. Then the waiter spilled custard down my trousers, I think he did it on purpose. I will need to get another pear.

Now for the bad news. My uncle Rocco pasta way, I’ve oranged to go to the funeral. He was very popular and I expect that the church will be jam packed.

It was a little chilli here yesterday so I went for a brisk walk. I bumped into an old friend and was speachless with surprise. We have a date tonight for a ketchup and maybe we will go and see the remake of Custards Last Stand at the cinema.

This part of London is a little meloncholy and none of the buildings is in mint condition. I now take what they say in the tourist guides with a pinch of salt.

Until the next thyme, my amore and apple of my eyes.

I yam your loving fiancé.

Angelo x

Claire swallowed a lump in her throat and folded the letter. The white envelope contrasted sharply against the black leather seat as the vehicle pulled away from the kerb.

With tears of pride in his eyes, her father helped her out and offered his arm. They entered the church and the organist began to play the Bridal Chorus.  

by Lesley Truchet