52 Brasstack Lane
Cleggithorpe
Yorkshire
3rd September
Dear Mary,
By heck, it were grand to go striding over the Peaks wi’ you last month. I’ll never forget t’way t’rain trickled down your Parka. And the lovely pink colour your face went when you choked on my Kendal Mint Cake. And as for your blisters! It fair makes me knees go weak to think about ’em.
Back here in Cleggithorpe, life’s just not the same. At t’Miner’s Arms last night, Willy and Dick fair gave me a ribbin’. “Eeee, Davey, lad,” they said, “hast lost thi sense o’ perspective? She’s only a lass when all’s said and done. Have another pint, lad, and we’ll get some black puddin’ on t’way home.”
But somehow, as I stared moodily at t’black puddin’, I couldn’t help thinkin’ o’you. Tell me Mary, can you come up next weekend? We could climb Cleggie Crags and hold hands in t’sleet.
Love,
Davey.
I swoon.
How wonderful. I’d love to think that someone’s “knees go weak to think about” me.