Lady B and the Missing Comma.

Damn the November blues. They’ve been bad this week (hence no posts.) And November has a disconcerting habit of bringing issues on its train. This year has been no exception, although they’ve mostly been circumvented so far.

I need to write something, and I need to cling to a rosy piece of history to counterbalance the thorny history of November. So who or what would you expect to spring to mind in such a situation? Correct. Tonight I re-read an email from the Lady B (before she was a ghost) which she sent a couple of years ago.

She had a fault, you know. Her voice was compellingly well modulated and feminine, and her spoken English perfect, but occasionally she stumbled slightly in the written form; occasionally she failed to understand the significance of accurate punctuation. She closed that email with ‘Love me.’

Fortunately, I am – as my mother was often wont to say – not so green as cabbage-looking. In other words, I’m not stupid. I knew full well that what she meant to say was ‘Love, Me.’ There’s a striking difference, isn’t there?

I find it amusing now (even in November.) And don’t such tiny imperfections make a person all the more rounded and therefore even worthier of your approbation? They do.