September the 11th, 2001, was a special day for my ex girlfriend and I, as this was the day that Jewel Latham was conceived. After 20 long years, and several failed attempts at finding her, her mother finally gave her a letter and a book (an illustrated copy of the Complete Works of Shakespeare) which I had sent to her, some eight years ago. Today has been... very emotional. Shortly after receiving the letter and book, Jewel reached out to her father (yours truly) for answers. That was, after doing a little checking, discovering that I am (among other things) an author and a musician.
It is a bittersweet feeling, I must admit, I am haunted by guilt, riddled with shame and thoroughly relieved to finally here that she is safe and well and hasn't had some grizzly fate befall her. Thank the Lord. We have only spoken through messages (her English is excellent) as she is still upset (with very good reason to be), and I have been somewhere between tears and trembling all afternoon and evening since she got in touch.
She takes after her mother (unfortunately), so she is not as handsome as she could have otherwise been, but still, she is a young lady that works hard, is in a relationship and has just ditched her university course. (Who can blame her? All I wanted to do at 20 was party and have fun).
I do think that she is well placed. She lives in a particularly beautiful city with an illustious history, and certainly - in my experience, which is not inconsiderable - when the French say they'll offer you a job, they mean it. (It is very different to Britain). In that thirty miles of ocean there is a world of difference and it's not just because they sell beer in McDonald's.
Typically, the young lady seems to hate her job (it is not too dissimilar to mine), but she seems to have a circle of friends that she likes, and I know nothing of her boyfriend except his name. I should hope that he is a good man, a kind man, and a man - most of all - that treats a lady with respect. For if he is not, should she ever require my assistance, I would certainly do whatever it takes to make it over there and have more than strong words with the young man in question.
I know what the French are like. For example, her grandfather once suggested that I slap his daughter when she was nagging me. One does no such thing (unless one is a Gaulish barbarian). I stood up, affronted at such a suggestion (for that is not the way in which a gentleman behaves, ever) and exclaimed (in English), "But that's barbaric!" I received a "Oui" and a Gallic shrug for my efforts. Furthermore, I distinctly remember the girl's mother (my daughter's mother) saying to me, "But it is a woman's job to carry the shopping." "Nonsense!" I exclaimed and carried almost all of the shopping (as much as I could possibly bear, which meant having it across both shoulders, hobo style, so I could carry five or six bags full) because I am not some scarcely out of the trees barbaric Gaul. I'm an Englishman.
In any case, after twenty years, she finally found me.
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