The US Presedential Selection (sic. very)
My dear T,
You young scamp, a Christmas party eh? Will there be dancing? And girls? And perhaps a light sherry for adults? I'm all of a quiver.
As I write, hordes of illiterate mountain men are making their thumb prints against their favourite picture, and it looks increasingly like a man who answers to 'Dubya' is going to win. Am I the only one on this continent who sees the chilling similarity between that moniker and 'bubba'? And that's all you need to know about the intellectualism of this place - that there is none. The most amazing thing about them is not only that they continue to get stupider, but that they actively seek to become more so. Ye gods, and they think they're the worlds best at everything.
With that out of my system let me fill you in on my literary progress. My second novel has been read by several agents in London and New York and I am currently fielding the rejection letters from these poor slobs and mourning the imminent death of their careers. It will only take one of them to see what's right in front of them and then the world will be mine. Incidentally I am keen to have your opinion of said tome. I'll have my man hand print a copy on rich grained vellum and deliver it wrapped in a red ribbon. You might perhaps share it with the lady of the house and see what she thinks of it. There is a passage or two about our home town that I think she might find instructive.
I had begun to work on my third opus but feel impelled to see publication of the second beforehand. How long can I deprive my public I ask? I think only of them, the poor souls. Is it right that these charlatans masquerading as agents should stand between my public and their happiness? Oh how my heart bleeds.
Now that the summer is over I am finally able to sport correct clothing at all times without the risk of perspiration. Until now I have had to severely ration my public appearances according to the anticipated temperature, a great relief is felt by all as you can well imagine. My wife and I are to attend the premiere of a moving picture tomorrow evening. This however will pale besides the screening of Bridge On the River Kwai that I am to attend tonight. I shall whistle the tune from opening credits to the end.
And our raiment my dear, how fares it? As I mentioned in my electronic mail I recently managed to secure a Purple Label greatcoat, along with a very dashing PL dinner jacket with lapels so wide I could take over from the ill-fated Concorde without the under-carriage problems. In addition a PL camel coat with a quiet over-check and some Crockett and Jones Oxford boots all begged to be mine. Interestingly I have found a purveyor of such goods at a mere fraction of my usual tailor's price. Naturally I thrashed the new chappie for his impudence in mentioning the Queen's shilling in my presence, and of course I thrashed my tailor for over-charging me. All in all a fine mornings work methinks.
What of your expounding written wisdom to hoi polloi? I recall your calling them venal, but surely a little just criticism should be taken in the constructive spirit in which it was intended. I can't believe they are not crying out for such righteous chastisement, or are they not perhaps the sadomasochists that I dreamt of? Oh no, that was another dream...
And your castle; your restored ruin; your gaff. I was interested to see that it is in absolutely not in the place where I thought it was. In fact I don't think I've propositioned any young men at all in your street and what were the chances of that? To think you've found the one place in all of WC1 without a history. Tell me, is there a plaque? Perhaps a pearl coloured one with fetching gold letters, raised of course. I can see it now... oh, is that my medicine?
Yours under the influence,