Hi.

It's been a while, hasn't it?  Months since I last emailed, and I don't know how long since I've heard anything from you.  I thought I wouldn't contact you again, because I don't know if you've died, or got bored, or closed your account, or if I said something that you didn't like.  It's disheartening, sending out messages into a black hole.  So after last time and no response from you, I thought, well, that's it.  But you know how it is.

The family was here all day.  Tony and Ellen and their kids, and Ros and hers, and Stephen, and all.  Mum  was in her element, she loves having a noisy crowd.  I didn't like it much.  I got a bit lonely.  I couldn't go out, because they get offended if I don't stay and do the family thing.  They get offended if I don't act pleasant to their offspring, too.  So it wasn't a good day.  I thought I coped with it quite well, though.  I kept calm, even when Ros's eldest threw a massive paddy for no obvious reason.  Her youngest squealed at the top of his voice for two hours without a break.  He's old enough to start growing out of that, but Ros thinks it's free expression or some such thing, so she won't try to break him of it.

I know what you're thinking.  Yes, I do.  You're thinking that I'm in no position to criticize my sister's parenting, given my total lack of experience.  And you're probably thinking I had the chance and didn't take it.  I wish I hadn't told you about that.

Did I tell you he's the manager there now?  Moving up in the world.  Oh, well, I'm sure I wish him all the best.  He's still got all his own hair; I'm not sure about his teeth.  I still don't want him, though.  Not even to get out of here.  I wouldn't take you, either, so forget it.  Yes, I know.  You already did.

Never mind all that.  Are you having good weather?  It's been very nice here, lovely sunshine but cool.  I went out walking last night, late, and it was just beautiful.  But then this morning it turned, and it drizzled till after tea. It would have been a nice day to get out, for me anyway; I don't mind a bit of rain.  Preferable to being stuck inside, with a houseful of noisy, ill-disciplined children, anyway.

I wonder if I would feel different if I had a screaming anklebiter of my own?  I shouldn't think so.  I'd probably abandon the thing.  It's odd, though, they don't seem to trouble Stephen at all.  Maybe he's deaf.  Or maybe just stupid.

There wasn't a moon last night.  You probably noticed that.  Or maybe not; I don't know where you were or what you were doing.  It wasn't dark on Ashwood Drive. They've got those horrible yellow street lights now, so it's never dark, not even in the furthest corner of the back yard.  But up Croft Street, past the old cottages there, the lighting's not so good.  You can go up along there and nobody sees you, if there's no moonlight.  Of course, you can't see the houses, either.  Most of them you can't, anyway, not the outside.

There's a nice little house down along there.  I've seen it in daylight, but it's not so pretty then.  It's a little old brick house, and they've gone and painted it some uncivilised colour, sort of reddy-brown-purple.  But you can't see that in the dark, so I can pretend it didn't happen.  I'm good at that; you told me so once, didn't you?

Some nights they leave the curtains open in the front room there.  The windows are leadlight, but clear glass, not coloured.  It's a very pretty little room.  I could live in that room.  By myself, of course, but I'd be happy with that.  I don't need much space.  I'd be leaving all my stuff behind.

I've never seen anyone in there.  I guess there must be someone living there, but I haven't seen them.  I've only seen their room, and their furniture.  There's a big mirror on the wall right opposite the window.  Remember the one Mum had, that she gave to Tony and Ellen?  I really liked that mirror; I think I told you about that.  It's very like.  So when I'm standing across the road, looking in at it, I can see - well, nothing, of course.  Because it's dark, and the mirror just reflects the reflection of itself in the window glass. 

There's never any noise, either, not from that house.  All the other places, there's usually something -  voices, or the television, or music, just some kind of noise.  But from that house, there's no sounds at all.

The next house along isn't so nice.  They've got dogs and succulents, and children, or at least, there's bikes and things all over the yard.  And the one after that is hidden by garden shrubs, so in the dark you wouldn't know there was anything there at all, if the air conditioning wasn't so loud.  That's all there is, really; just a constant humming.

The sports ground at the end of that street wasn't being used last night.  Some nights they play matches there; football, or cricket or something, I don't know.  But last night it was quiet.  I went across right into the middle of it.  The ground has one of those high spiky hedges around it, so you can't see the street outside, the houses or anything.  You can't even hear them.  I just stood there for a while, and I thought, it would just be a relief to shriek as loudly as I could, because nobody would hear me there.  But of course one doesn't do that, not in a civilised community.  So after a while I just went home.

I will do it one day.  I'll drive right out to the middle of the Nullarbor where it's flat and dry and empty, and I will scream until somebody hears me. I wouldn't tell anyone else about that, but it's safe to tell you, because you're not reading this anyway.

I hope you are well.  If you're still alive, that is.

Write back to me.  Even if it's just to tell me to go away.

Yours, as ever.