“And then he saw the letter. Six blue sheets densely written on both sides. He stared at it as if an intruder had left it behind, and with his new sobriety came the first twinge of doubt. Picking it up gingerly, he glanced at a page at random and immediatly looked away, his mouth puckered tight. All those capitals and exclamations marks and awful jokes. He had called her ‘sexy’, he had used the word ‘discersion’ which wasn’t even a proper word. He sounded like some poetry-reading sixth-former, not a pioneer, and adventurer with a shaved head and a tattoo and no underpants beneath his jeans. “I will find you, I’ve been thinking about you, Dex and Em, Em and Dex” – what was he thinking? What had seemed urgent and touching an hour ago now seemed mawkish and gauche and sometimes frankly deceitful; there had been no praying mantis on the wall, he hadn’t been listening to her compilation tape as he wrote, had lost his cassette player in Goa. Clearly, the letter would change everything, and weren’t things just fine as they were? Did he really want Emma with him in India, laughing at his tattoo, making smart remarks? Would they have to share a bed? Did he really wanted to see her that much?
Yes. he decided, he did. Because for all its obvious idiocy, there was a sincere affection, more than affection, in what he had written and he would definitly post it that night. If she over-reacted, he could always say he was drunk. That much at least was true.”