Two Chaps Talking

Dear Father T,

Six inches matron. All day. Nothing when you woke up and had your tea, and a full six inches when you had your cocoa and went to bed. Shocking I can tell you. I didn't even dare to wear my trusty brogues as the nasty snow would've ruined the butterscotch patina that I cherish. All over now though. Heating up and melting away. All gone.

Computers are bastard sons of the devil aren't they? I just bought a new printer and of course it's not compatible with my Mac. When I asked if I could up-grade my G3 PowerBook they laughed and said I might want to use it to upgrade my doorstop. When I then plugged the new printer into my old PC it caused the thing to crash, and since I don't have something called a system disc then I can't do something called re-booting and so I have to do something called buying a new computer. Total Bush Bastards, computers.

Christmas is shortly to be upon us and the usual endless whirlwind of parties is about to begin. Well, so far I've only been invited to the one, but I'm sure there're more to come. That's the trouble with moving three thousand miles when you're thirty and then not keeping a job for more than a year, you don't tend to make life-long, or even shallow, friends. Still the one I'm going to will be fun, it's a black tie do so I can wear a white tie and tails and mistake the rest of the guests for waiters. I did the same thing last year and had a splendid time. After several glasses of champers some friends arrived clutching an incredibly fetching young wench with fulsome bosoms and that peek of pink lingerie that excites red blooded men so readily. "Are you my Christmas present?" I asked rather loudly if truth be told. Rising to the challenge the wench allowed me to squire her around the party as my personal concubine. Even the Missus was amused, which was fortunate.

M and I are going to lunch at The Plaza on Christmas Day. As I'm sure you know these heathens don't close down on 25th December out of 'respect' for the other religions and they haven't even heard of Boxing Day, so one has to do what one can to keep the festive spirit alive. I shall endeavour to watch Her Maj over the internet and I may even pop along to the local non-denominational cathedral (this is New York after all) to hear some carol singing.

With all that guff out of the way let's get to the point. You, my dear friend, are going to be a pater. A proven begetter. M and I are delighted for you both. Finally a well-dressed baby will be brought forth into this horribly casual world. When is the stork due to arrive? And do you need cigars for the waiting room pacing? Or will you pass the whole period in your club? I'm told women do make rather a fuss over the whole thing.

A few weeks in Australia you say? Fantastic. Though you'll miss the grey skies over Hoxton terribly I should imagine. Perhaps you could take some rain water in a phial and sprinkle it over your head whenever you miss Blighty. I find a plate of Baked Beans on toast does the trick but to each his own. Do give my fondest to your baby brother.

And that's about the size of it old love. I've recovered from my brief fling with Eminem though I find his abuse a tonic for the drivel to which I am exposed daily via the 'media' here in the land of the ill-informed. Talking of which I had dinner with a member of the White House staff last week. Incredible. He thought Bush was a genius and Rice was left wing and everything they did was perfect. And anything he couldn't defend he claimed to not be briefed on (everything but terrorism). And even his knowledge of world terrorism was so disgustingly biased as to be inadmissible. And to think him and his mates have their fingers on the trigger. If you think too hard about it you get all down in the dumps, so unplug the jukebox and do us all a favour.

Yours on the Wild frontier,
Brother S XX