Where r u Rebecca?

Sundays will not be the same. The guilty furtive rustle, saving the pleasures for the evening, I know you now and we've been speaking for a couple of years, you with your monologues and funny (that's funny strange rather than funny humour!) stories of everyday family war and the grind of our existence, me passing comment from behind the Sunday broadsheet, grunting acknowledgements like a creaking armchair.

Our relationship was a bit one sided but you ladies hate it when we just talk about ourselves all the time so this time was different, this time you could do all the talking and I could remain a mystery. An armcahir stalker or voyeur with a limited view of your world, controlled by your ability or desire to let me in or keep me out. I may have got into your head or I may only be scratching its surface or indeed a fictional veneer, but it felt like an affair to me. Now you've left, gone to faddy diets and a backwater where I can hardly find you at all. I can't rant with you about the parking tickets and the rough trade (sorry tradesmen) and you can't seek solace in my grunting acknowledgements, surely creeping out from many more than just my paper.

I even enjoyed the bits about your husband, from a slightly jealous perch some miles away. So to the editors I say bring back Rebecca and the Tyrell tirade that gave me a glow of insight into a life and place that shall now drop back into the everyday fog of life.