Madeline Writes To Georgina

by Laurence Wilhelm Lillvik

                                                                                24 Abu Hurairah Road,
                                                                                Jumeirah, Dubai,
Dearest Georgina,

        I wonder what time it is there in Dullingham? I can't be bothered to look it up, well in fact I won't be bothered because I am forsaking modern technology (as this hand written epistle surely attests). I so don't want to be one of those girls walking around eternally “plugged in” like an android to her phone, thumbs in constant texting motion … OMG, just as I wrote that bit about the forsaking of technology, I realize how impossible it is to escape. My mother has that ridiculous Oprah blaring from the other room, and I have to share the snippet of vapid dialogue my poor ears were just forcibly exposed to.

     “Our guest is here to talk about his new theory on nut memory.”

     Audience laughs. I swear I heard some ooos and ahhhhhs.

     “Nut memory?” asks Oprah, and you can hear the childish snicker in her voice.

         I guess he was talking about squirrels, something about how they only remember where 20% of the nuts they hide are buried, which is crucial for the survival of plants. (Mother watches so much American television. I am shocked I didn't hear someone in the audience shout “how about deez nuts!”)  How I miss the oak trees in Dullingham. It would be a waste of ink to drone on about how I despise the desert waste that is The United Arab Emirates.  Jesus. George, I apologize in advance for this awful Non Sequitur, or maybe it is a segue, as it does regard nuts. But I just have to blurt it out.


      More on that later. I can't believe I've made it this far on the page without congratulating you and asking about Wimbledon! How rude of me. Of course I watched the whole match on DVR and paused and rewound the parts when you were on camera. Repeatedly. I'm serious George, you showed such poise as you handed that Nadal fellow his sweaty towel! Boy did he reach for that thing often! I was impressed. As you may know, you probably know, as you live and breathe tennis (ha!) that his opponent Roger practices in Dubai, at the very resort Mother is employed, yes, the one owned by Sheik Magerramov. Apparently the hellish conditions down here serve to improve his game when he plays tournaments on the Continent, and Australia and the UK, and well, anywhere else in the world where 150º F isn't the normal temperature. Mother got me his autograph. Ho hum.

     After your last e-mail I never thought I'd see you on television holding up balls at the Final Championship Match. Getting caught in the prorector's dorm with pills and booze and illicit entertainment! As you can imagine I immediately downloaded a copy of “Salo.” Utter rubbish! Please tell me it was your gentleman companion who chose that horrid DVD (I'm so over the Criterion Collection.) Pasolini simply butchered the good Marquis' work. I could go on and on, but the whole spirit of “120 Days of Sodom” was twisted to bits in order to serve Pasolini's anti-fascist and anti-consumerist agenda. I couldn't eat poop for months after watching that! Ha ha. You really are a sick girl.     So how on earth did you not get kicked off the “ball-gathering squad” or whatever it is they call you people? You seemed so certain you'd be barred from competitive tennis entirely. Did something even more sordid take place? With someone even more powerful? Is that what allowed you to keep your illustrious position? Do tell.

     Funny how attracted one can be to unseemliness until they have suspicions that their mother is a prostitute. Back to that. George, it didn't take much detective work to come to my shocking conclusions. Started with the old New York Times bestseller list. I was just perusing it one Sunday morning when I got to the non-fiction portion and I saw Mother's old friend Christie on the cover of a book. All dolled up and skanky as usual. The only woman I've met who spreads on fake tan while living on the Arabian peninsula. Appears she “wrote” a whole little tell-all about her experience as concubine to the billionaire sheiks of the world.  (Yes, I immediately downloaded the rubbish to my Kindle, and you're wondering why I've decided to try life as a luddite?) The damned thing was horribly (ghost) written, and devoid of any squalid or sexy bits. Those samizdat Gossip Girl books we used to read at Frotheringham Prep were far more titillating (remember those ‘Itty Bitty Booklites?') There were, however, enough concrete details in the book to leave me little doubt as to how Mother spends her time away from the condo. And Christie did suddenly disappear, presumably back to the USA and her literary agent.

     You'd think my mother, at 38 ,would be a little old for that line of work, you know, HAREM MAID!!!! I can only hope she never gets chosen for the sheik's nightly… Oh, I'm making myself ill! Well, George, I haven't confronted her yet, I do need proof, and fall break is coming up. I may just try out some of my old Nancy Drew moves. However, Nancy never lived a world of incessant surveillance though, did she? I may seem like I'm taking this news well, or with a big old ten-stone bag of salt, as it were, but I'm not. How I wish I was back home in dreary old Dullingham!

     Well I'm sure you want a little more in the way of reports from this exotic Disneyland that is Dubai. Promise you won't laugh George, but I'm actually embracing the whole female modesty thing. Seriously, does Headmistress Rawlings have her head in a hole? There are whole industries geared toward fetishizing our little British schoolgirl uniform. Has she never shopped online for a bargain and stumbled upon a salacious link? I'm starting to think they were designed by a fetishist in the first place. Now take no offense here, but even while I was watching you strut your stuff on the Legendary Courts of The All England Wimbledon Lawn Tennis and Croquet Club I knew there were pervs around the world salivating. Ha! As if you didn't know as well! Anyway, it's nice to stroll around Dubai in Victorian modesty and leave it all to their sodden imaginings. I'm only half kidding.
     I did meet a boy. I just didn't want you to feel responsible for ruining our proposed “Boston Marriage.” However, I'd be pleased to drop this son of a second-rate colonialist the second we finish University and we can proceed on course. Have you got your applications in yet, btw? Oxford or bust!

                                                                                                                                     Love Deez Nutz,