“dear winnie..just because i’ve let my guard down and opened up to you completely, doesn’t make it acceptable to use me for your emotional toilet. without a moments warning, when we’re out on the town, you turn off the neon, and paint everything brown. i want you to know it’s not your unpredictability or depression that makes you interesting…it’s more your love for that well worn baby grand that suddenly took over my tiny living space last year…the walls are thin but not one neighbour complains because they love hearing a living maestro play rachmaninoff with such verve…you sail through that complex music like a hot knife sails through butter….while you were away for concerts in hamburg and cologne, it was left to me to get that lovely little beast of a piano craned in through a surgically removed window pane…it was a right royal pain in the arse,and you never even asked how we did it…. you drone on and on about your difficult frizzy hair like it matters..everyone loves your mad misbehaving hair..it’s like an explosion in a mattress factory…but most of all, these half arsed suicide attempts have to stop.. it’s embarrassing and of course you’ll never do it…you love your music and books too much for such nonsense . so please please.. i beg you winnie, stop wasting time…it shreds me when you ruin whole weekends and then on the eleventh hour of a sunday night you change frequency to make generous warm tender love… do you really think that renders everything okay?.. i’ve never known heaven like it, but you can’t just do that and expect it to justify all the rest…i will run for the hills if you don’t cut these games. i’m not giving an ultimatum, it’s just i wasn’t born with a stomach for this sort of thing.
i love you…let’s lighten up and be joyful…it doesn’t lack substance to be so… kisses…bamber”