Two Chaps Talking

Hail prince of Bohemia and First Lord of Buggery,

Excuse my tardiness in replying to your finely worded missive, I have been having my buttons polished and my hair plucked in advance of the celebrations to mark the thirty-third summer of my existence. Miss M is coming over and we are going to the Hamptons for the weekend. I shall be doing my best to get myself barred from yet another of the area's most pretentious establishments. And I shall succeed I assure you.

All has been well here in Sodom, only last week the wife and I went up to a place that I believe they refer to as 'New' England. We were there for a wedding and you will be happy to learn that I utterly disgraced myself with my prodigious consumption of electric soup. The evening culminated in a game of charades to which I believe my contribution was the immortal phrase "YOU DUMB FRAT BOY FUCK" Not perhaps my most eloquent ejaculation but precise at least. This was shouted in the face of a chap to whom I had taken a dislike. Since I don't think he had come across a great many of our type his shock turned to amusement and I was spared the beating I so richly deserved. I ask you, what does a chap have to do to cause offence?

The heat is currently insufferable in this third world city, even the rats are dying in the streets. I of course remain indoors at all times chained to my keyboard and working on re-writes and resplendent in my three-piece worsted. I broke bread with my soon-to-be literary agent (insh'allah) and she is gagging for my continued output (matron). I have been thinking about ideas for my third effort and I might want to question you rather thoroughly, I have a character in mind to whom you may well be able to relate. Can you briefly imagine yourself as a heterosexual male for the sake of literature?

And how is your Englishman's castle and fairytale princess? If the opportunity presents itself you might send me a snapshot or two so I can fix the image in my mind. It's been quite a while since I graced the fair city with my presence and it may well not be until Christmas that I finally return, so any pictures of what I'm missing will be most gratefully received. These stretches in the colonies can be interminable, but England Expects.

You will no doubt be relieved to hear that my recent spell of 'work,' which I stress was only to help out a friend, is over and I am once more the carefree and gay bon viveur that I was. Having tried it I really can't imagine what people see in the whole enterprise, had I taken it even slightly seriously it would've interfered enormously with my social obligations and my visits to the tailor, which would never do. Really, I mean, going to the same place several days in a row, sometimes even before lunchtime and then being expected to remain in situ for over an hour at a time. Whatever will they think of next? I like to think of myself as a chap with a private income (the wife's) and my work on the next Great British Novel will not be hampered by mere financial concerns. Oh No!

A group of trades-people have had the audacity to invite me to a place called 'Philadelphia' (I believe they make soft cheese there) to talk about
'work'. But have no fear, it will be the work of an instant to tick them off and send them away with a flea in their ear.

Ah, as I write 'she who must be obeyed' has summoned me to luncheon with. I will leave you now and return anon.

Until then my brother,

S