It's strange how other people's blogs will trigger a chain of thought. The phrase 'my writing desk...' so pregnant with implications with memorys with leters from loved ones - from a particular person long, long ago...
      We were both so young. How old would she be now? She may well have married and had a family - though I could not imagen her in that role. She probably finished that novel - wrote more perhaps.
   What ever kind of man would she have ended up with? As strange - as kind as her? The memorys she left me; the presents - the Turkish coffee table - the books.
  After we had broken up I remember a year later seeing her on an Underground Station platform in the rush hour. Fleetingly, that familer figure - the ginger hair. Then the croud swollowed her up and my train came in.
So very long ago.