How will it look on a serious envelope. I swear this was my first thought when I moved from the far more respectable sounding Maryanne Avenue, and performed the necessary address changes required. To make matters worse, the number of my flat was 123.
123 Noodle Street.
Who lives at such a place? Curious George?
Clifford the Big Red Dog? Ernie and Bert?
I'm a lawyer, for God's sake!
Still unpacking boxes I received a letter from my mother, in which my greatest fears were realized.
She told me to throw all unrecognized mail at the nearest wall.
If it sticks, son, open it. If not…. cook it for three more minutes.
I wrote back the same day.
Often, in my arduous, sweat be-drenched days of courtroom litigation I comfort myself in the reminder that in this cruel world I have at least one person that will be my protector. My rock. My lighthouse in the storm. Oh, mother -- even you have let me down. Even you, even you, are not quite al dente.
-- © Ciprianowords, Inc. 2015 --