I was tweaking a wonky quatrain in a newly composed Blogtopian poem in which I hint at a Hidden Hurt when the phone rang.
It was X, wondering what progress I'd made with her present and why I'd unfriended her on Facebook.
"In fact," I told her, "that was another X, as I have two best friends, but the present I haven't got for you yet is even better, albeit undeliverable."
It's true. The French company from which I ordered it got in touch yesterday to say that my address doesn't exist. This came as a blow to me, as I've lived here for six years and received packages from all over the world in that time, including several incredible giveaway wins and, only last week, a Lifetime Achievement Award all the way from the Taiwanese High Consulate, as I told France vehemently.
And I hadn't unfriended X, but rather deleted my account on Facebook during the summer. You should see the great peace that has descended on me since then, no longer in the thick of things, unaware of everyone's sprightly activities unless they themselves tell me about them. I've ceased to be pressured into Liking everything and can revert to my sullen self, not liking most things very much, except, as ever, your lovely hairstyle.
So that leaves X with little prospect of a present from me, down from 367 to 366 in the all-important number of dear Facebook friends, and forced to listen to the Blogtopian poem in which I hint at a Hidden Hurt. "It's not hidden enough," she said. Who can blame her?