Love Letter

Introductions

January 15th....

Dear Mr Hiddleston... Loki... Hal...Tom,

You don't know me, of course you don't. And truthfully, I don't normally write to people who don't know me.
As Loki so eloquently put it, I am in a bit of time-crunch, so I'll get to the point shall I?

I think, under the circumstances, you'll forgive me being so forward.

Circumstances? What circumstances, I hear you say. Well, to put it bluntly, I'm sick. Very sick. I'm about as sick as it's possible to be and still be here. I'm sure a man of your enviable intelligence doesn't need it spelt out. If you did, it would only need one letter anyway.

The next few weeks and months - God knows I hope its years - are going to be testing. I'll need a focus. An anchor in my sea of waking dreams as it were.

Tom, I have been a fan of your work, from Archipelago to War Horse; from Henry V to Highrise; from Thor to well, you get the drift.

Unbeknownst to you, you have guided, entertained, inspired, and generally charmed your way through some of the darkest episodes of my all too brief existence.

What is it, they say? You'll never know when you were middle-aged until the end? Sadly, if fate has its way, I was middle-aged long ago.

But I digress, this was - is - essentially a thank you letter. Thank you for everything you've brought to the stage and screen. Thank you for the laughter, the tears, the anger, and the peace.

It's more than that, though. It's a request. As with many people, when the chips are down, they know who they can turn to. And that, Tom, is where you come in.

I am, as they say (and it appears 'they' say a lot), quite alone. I have friends, and I have some family. My friends all have families, and my family? Well, they all have lives. Lives that don't have the capacity for sick me.

Please don't feel sorry for me. I don't mean for you to do that. I just wanted to explain why I am asking if, and only if you have the time, would you write to me?

You see, I , like many other people, have a bucket list. Yes, Jack Nicholson and Morgan Freeman have a lot to answer for ! My bucket list has always been a work in progress. Ranging from skinny dip in the ocean (freezing!) to drinking an Old Fashioned in the American Bar of The Savoy (delicious). From seeing sunset at the Taj Mahal (not even sure it faces the right way) to eating chips at New Asgard (again, delicious).

All of these seemed attainable when I had all the time in the world, but now there are a couple of entries I now know will never be. Not unless I can gather my courage in both shaking hands.

So.

Courage duly gathered.... would you be my pen pal? An old-fashioned notion I grant you, but there's just something lovely about a handwritten letter. Would you talk to me of Shakespeare and Larkin? Of Pinter and Wheatley? The relative merits of Victoria Sponge and Chocolate Eclairs? If it was really fair to make Cookie Monster wait quite that long?

I know you're a busy man, probably far too busy to pander to a sad, lonely woman like me. Honestly though? I had to try. God loves a tryer, after all.

You once said,'The sky's the limit. Your sky, your limit.' Well, for me this is my sky. Since we will probably never meet, never share a coffee and a slice of cake, never hug and never, ever walk up Primrose Hill to watch the sun rise together, perhaps we can write.

My sky is that. No more, no less. You can't blame a girl for trying.

As I said, God loves a tryer. I just hope that God happens to be one of Mischief and Stories.

Whatever the outcome of this, of me, I will always think of you with great fondness. And smile endlessly at reruns of The Play Wot I Wrote....

Take care Tom, you are precious to a great many people but me especially.

All my very best, all my love
Alison.

Ps If you think I'm a complete nutjob, I apologise. I've never been one with much of a filter. Sorry!

She folded the paper and slipped it into the envelope. Sealing it down, she pulled on her coat and woolly hat with the green (of course) faux fur pompom. Slipping the envelope into her pocket, she walked to the front door. It was only 3.30pm, plenty of time to get to the post office.

Opening the front door, shecstood for a second just breathing in the cold air, relishing it's freshness after the stuffy house. Patting her pocket she closed the door and headed off.

What's the worst that could happen? She asked herself. Him not replying, that's what, she barely allowed herself to think.

As she plodded off into the wintery afternoon, she felt sure this was a waste of time. But, if she was going to waste time, she coukd think of noone better to do it with.

After all, when God made man, she told herself, he sent Tom Hiddleston as an apology. It just didnt get any better than that.

Little did she know it was about to get a lot, LOT better........