Majorca Flats -- 116

My darling Jason,

You know how I am with computers. Anyway I battled and battled (see? I've even worked out how to use underlining!) and I lost two whole emails before I worked out what I was doing wrong. I'm hoping this one actually reaches you. It seems so strange sending off a missive like this which will get to you instantly whereas in the old days it took weeks and weeks to get to Australia.

You are a very naughty boy going off like that and giving me such a scare. At first they wouldn't tell me what happened but your dad phoned in a flap and asked me where you were! As if I'd know! Though I suppose it's a vote of confidence. So I had to worm it out of your sister. I thought I was being very cunning. I invited her to Hampstead on the pretext of taking her to the opera (there's a lovely La Bohème on with that new tenor whose name sounds so Italian, Dolce or something), anyway, when she arrived she started quizzing me about what happened, so I played the ingénue, but she wasn't fooled for a minute (I don't know where she or you, for that matter, get your brains from – it certainly isn't from either of your parents!) and in the end I wormed it out of her. She's was terribly upset by what happened. I haven't mentioned that I got a letter from you, but I know she misses you desperately. I won't tell her unless you say so, but she knows how to keep a secret.

Why do you blame yourself for Brent's death, dear? He was such a lovely young man, I was so fond of him. Your mother never understood that all the outside stuff doesn't matter, it's what's in your heart and soul that's important. My dearest Jasie, if you don't want to talk about it, don't. Just remember I'm here if you need me. In fact, I'd love to come out and visit you. Even at my age.

Mr Minim looked around when I told him your name. I know there are some foolish old women who believe their dog is human, but really, he shows so much more alertness than many people, and far more than that new prime minister, well, good grief, the man has as much personality as a Tesco's teapot. All slick and breakable and cheap. It is said that he went to Eton. I hae me doots, as my old Scottish nanny would say, God bless her.

Write soon. I miss you. The book by the way was Mary Stewart's Touch not the Cat. (More underlining! I am so with it! I feel so madly technic. Or maybe I mean technological.) It's such a nice romance and an exciting thriller too. The book I mean not my technical thingy.

Much love,

Gran

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