Years ago I moved into Susan’s old flat, and judging from the number of gentlemen callers who popped by asking for her, I gathered she was a fairly popular girl. For some reason, they all looked very disappointed to see me standing in Susan’s doorway?
One night, a particularly enthusiastic chap clambered up the latticework to woo Sue through the lounge room window. Popping out from behind the curtains I yelled, “Boo!”, then caught his arm as he fell; so much for love giving you wings.
The visits eventually tapered off, but amongst the eight tonnes of Christmas catalogues appeared a handmade card for Susan. It appeared to have been scrawled by a child, or possibly someone with a broken hand, but the sentiments were so heartfelt I couldn’t bring myself to throw it away, so I put it on the tele next to my own cards.
Afterwards, I called a mate out west and gave him my new address and phone number, which he stuck on his fridge. The next day a woman rang and whispered, “How did you get my phone number?”
“Hello Susan,” I muttered, wondering why coincidences like this plague my life.
She begged me not to tell anyone about her old life and I promised, then said, “You got a lovely Christmas card, can I mail it to you?” She started crying and hung up.
Sadly, of all the people who knew Susan, only one thought to write to her at Christmas. We had both learned that being popular doesn’t necessarily mean you are loved, but occasionally you may be surprised to find that someone remembers you fondly; even if you never met.
So, Merry Christmas Susan; wherever you are.