Dear Blancmange

I take no little umbrage at your accusation that I keep you running round and round, especially in view of the fact that on account of my ongoing sciatica it should be patently obvious that I am incapable of chasing you for more than a couple of wheezed steps. Also, although, as you claim, this obvious fabrication may well be ‘’alright with you’’ I fail to see how you could simultaneously be up and down, up the wall, up the bloody tree and residing upon the upper interior surface of a room, to say nothing of your constant shrinkage and elongation from so small, so small, to so tall, so tall.

Furthermore, my gelatin thickened pudding monickered correspondees, I must take issue with your assertion that the reason for your present, although unlikely, gravity challenging address has been selected because there is ‘’no more room down here’’. My son has just returned from Somerset and assures me that most of if it is uncultivated fields, surely affording ample opportunity for non-head rush facilitating property development. Anybody coming in to land at any of our major airports would surely attest to this fact

Are you sure about all of this, Blancmange?

You can be assured, Blancmange, that hiding from my questions, questions I WILL ask is a futile exercise, and I sincerely hope that ‘’things fall into place’’ in the near future


Derek Philpott



©2009-2014 Dawson-Rice | Website designed with the splendid help of Oast One.