Dear Emily,
I just wanted to write a long narrative to say that I have arrived in America. We could quibble over the term, “safely.” I’m sure you assumed that I’ve arrived “alive” since there has been no account of airlines ditching into the cold Atlantic, but of course, a street thug could have accidentally shot me, or there could have been a motor accident from the airport, which you probably wouldn’t hear about in the British press.
I could mention many things that keep me up at night and sleeping in the Kia Sorento (a type of van they have here in the States) — but why should I worry you about The Psychotic Cousin, my Nutrient-Depleted Auntie, the guns, the clutter, the debris, Lyme disease, the scary motor cycle gangs, including what could be two Death Riders in Black who may be stalking me.
Father has also discussed such a thing as The Jersey Devil. He does exist. His name is Billy, The Cousin. Can…
