Dear Alma Betty Smith,

You don’t know me, and though I only know you as a silhouette, I have a hunch that you’d bear with me.

It’s a few minutes past 1a.m as I'm writing this. You may be sleeping like mud by now after a day’s

work, or still awake, either in silence or in the company of late-night radio.

Don’t let it get to you that DJ Bob Rogers — the common denominator between you and I — didn’t play

“Smoke Smoke Smoke That Cigarette” on his programme. He will at some point; I can’t say why, but I know.

I also requested a song on my birthday last year — Roy Clark's “Yesterday When I Was Young”,

although it never played.

This year’s birthday was one without radio. I have been distancing myself from it, most likely because

I’m not as alone as I used to be way back when (whether that’s good or bad I can’t say).

Radio is a friend who I can neglect, who I can choose to turn down, but will always be there on the

receiving end when needed the most. Maybe that’s the kind of friend I would like to be;

someone who is as close and distant as a radio.

On an unrelated note, what do you do for a living, dear Alma? A repetitive job, maybe?

Every now and then, when balanced on the edge of sleep, I see images of you slide past me.

Today, you are defrosting meat pies behind a counter in a pub, ceiling fans turning, a starched

white apron tied around your waist. In any case, this flowery green dress I hand down to you screams out

Alma Betty Smith.

If you stay true to your words: if you happen to chase Bob Rogers ’round the studio with a big stick, please do so in this dress.

Enclosed in this envelope is a small treat from Japan (“Cocoa Cigaretto”). Lay off those cancer sticks!

Which makes me want to ask: can you blow smoke rings? Maybe if you request that song —

Smoke Rings — he will play it for you.

I guess it’s more in line with his stress-free-middle-of-the-road-adult-music playlist.

Where do they go, the smoke rings I blow each night?

What do they do, Those circles of blue and white?

Puff puff puff puff your cares away…

Yours Truly,

H