A snippet from one of Imogen's emails. With commentary by me. Because I'm lazy I finally have the Star Trek; Voyager box set, oh yes!

My Nene's ongoing campaign against my favourite jeans began with "is this any way to dress? It might be OK in England, but things are different here. People will think you don't have any money." Dede's attitude was "look, if she likes them let her wear them- there are worse things she could be insisting on."
These responses say a lot about both of them.
My attitude to my favourite jeans is "they look fantastic on, and my only other pair that looks quite so marv have a come stain on them." This, in turn, says a lot about me.

Truth.

I didn't explain that to Nene fully, of course; I'm finally learning when to stop.

Twenty years in. God bless.

I'm not wholly sure I can take credit for this, actually- six hours on an over night plane being kept company by a very keen Austrian with equally enthusiastic air conditioning after a week of, well, Kos, with a handful of my fellow Catholic schoolies had left me dazed. Somewhat.

The pictures are proof enough. And she sent me a select few, so God only knows what the rest are like.

Although I did refrain from correcting my cousin when she asked why I had such lovely underwear when noone sees it, so I might finally be growing up.

In my dazed state, I let my cousin decide I was her "bestest playmate" and spent the whole of that first morning being steered round my Grandparents' garden looking for a hidden stone, to her directions. "Hot!" "Absolutely broilingly extremely hot!" "No, cold." "Still cold."
"Sunshine, it's 45 degrees out here."
"You're cold. You want to be hot. Means you're near the stone."
"What do I get when I find the stone?"
"You get to hide it."
"Sunshine, I don't want to. Can we do something else?"
"When you find it we could... climb the fig tree?"
Marvellous, just extremely marv.

She's cute though- I appreciate her more after sleep; she runs errands for me if I phrase them as favours but abuses me for satiating my Ayran addiction.

It's a sort of goats milk yoghurty drink. And the cousin's the seven year old vegan daughter of the vegan aunt from Hackney. We love her.

Which leads nicely to my next point, actually. I'm out of cigarettes, and I can't buy any as I didn't think to change my pennies into Lira- and I'm not allowed to leave the house on my own anyway, so I'm fucked. I explained this to Alice and she asked me if it was sideways; keep an eye on her for me, would you? If she was fifty years older people would be worried she'd has a stroke that's left her 'slightly addled'. Frankly. Anyway, is this any way to live? I'm the last of the guilt free smokers, living in a house with a perfect view of the Marlboro billboard, in a country where smoking laws are virtually non existent with a favourite Great Uncle who drinks whiskey in the morning and hides cigarettes in his socks so his wife doesn't find them.
Who, incidentally, has a nicotine addiction of her very own that he doesn't know about: they've been married for about fifty years as well. Mirth. Maybe I can beg some.

At her high school I'm told the cool people were allowed to smoke behind a local fast food shop if they bought some Ribena or somesuch. See, smoking is cool. Nono, not really. But when I say that and people see me lighting up they assume I'm a quitter who quit quitting. Which is true, but when I tried to stop I gained half a stone and then decided I'd rather die early than be fat.

I'm having a hard time hiding my tattoo from my family though; there's only so long I can sling a towel over my shoulder, and when I'm swimming I have to remember to keep my back away from them all. This isn't helped by Ceylan insisting on piggy backs and walking into my room without The Knock at all hours.

Ah yes, The Knock. Or lack of, the source of many an argument in the Spinster household last year. And Ceylan? It's Turkish, and the C is pronounced as a J. This little mispronounciation was drilled into me many a time. I think its a pet hate.

In light of your recent adventures darling, I have to ask: just how, pray tell, does one tell Spanish men and Italians apart?
I love them both, equally. Except my Italian is nonexistent- I'm assuming Gee's wrong when she says it's essentially English, but you add "io" to the end of everything? I was going to just accept it, but then she said "snoggio" and I gave in to the little doubting voice. Incidentally sweetie, I've decided to learn Turkish as I hate not being able to talk to most of my extended family.

Oh yes, what fun! It took her long enough to learn French, and she doesn't use it much (apart from the swear words).

Now, this request of yours for pictures of my underwear. I have one question for you, sugar; do you want sets? Knickers? What? I need more details. Do suspenders and stockings come under the underwear category? I left those at home actually, but bras and panties I have in abundance. Oh yes, also can I ask why?

The order of that last snippet also says a lot about her. But it looks like underwear pictures will be forthcoming. Imogen's.

Love Txxxxxx