Letter

Dearest Emilia,
I am writing to you from a train, it is raining, and I am very angry.
The sun hasn't come out in about 45 minutes, and even then it was a
slight gleam. Barely recognizable by the human eye. But I was paying
attention, therefore I got to see the 1 second of beauty. In the long,
agonizing day.
I am on my way to Bristol, and I am not happy about it. My mother
has passed away from you know what, and I am being sent away
(against my will). To live with Aunt Margaret, she is nasty, and stubborn.
The last time I saw her, she made me wash my mouth out with soap,
for calling Henry a wanker.
There is an old man sitting next to me, and he hasn't stopped snoring,
since we ate dinner last night. I have tickled his mustache to make him
wake up, but it didn't work. I am tempted to put something in his mouth,
but I would be to blame if he choked and died. So, that's a no.
I am running out of ink, and this train is very bumpy, so I will write you
again when something interesting happens in this boring, old thing I call
a life.

Sincerely,
 
   Phoebe