Alphabet Soup

I got obsessed with the alphabet for a while. I wrote stories, poems and prose. I bought a letterpress. I learned caligraphy. I collected train tickets from different lettered carriages. I took photographs of old-fashioned fonts on the side of buildings. I ate alphabet soup. I stole my favourite letter notes from a glockenspiel.

I would spend whole afternoons writing with a fountain pen on tea stained paper; I hung the pages out on a washing line high above my radiator and watched as they fluttered, as though they were somehow alive. And I saw all the lives inside my books, all the worlds within the words. I never stopped talking or writing or thinking about talking and writing.

Eventually, the letters of the alphabet appeared as characters in my dreams, each one with its own personality which varied from night to night. Sometimes the letter T was very business-like with a dry sense of humour, whilst the letter R was very gracious and quiet. Sometimes the letter B and I would get tipsy and gossip together.

I must admit, my obsession had gone too far.

I met you on a Friday night. I was tongue-tied for the first time in my life. All my trusted letters spiralled away from me and when I reached out for them, they slipped away.

We walked along the river in silence.