Dear Mr. Fish
I am a little perplexed, Mr. Fish, by your assertion that we are (presumably you are referring to our good selves perhaps in addition to hitherto unknown third parties) just sugar mice in the rain.
I hope you will also forgive me for stating that the very employment of the word ''just'' as an adverb grossly understates the gravity of such a human to soaked carbohydrate murine transformation.
Not only is it currently quite sunny outside at the moment, but, aside from a few whiskers that I decided to cultivate to commemorate a particularly successful ''Movember'', I do not appear to resemble a small saccharine rodent, sodden or otherwise, in the slightest at the time of writing.
As regards your request that I blame this currently unrealised predicament on you, considering that to the best of my knowledge we have never met, I find it difficult to fathom how you could be held accountable for any metamorphosis into a precipitation soaked diminutive confectionary mammal that I may be yet to undergo.
Furthermore, given that I am several years your senior and am fully aware that my father Ernest was not Scottish, there is no feasible way in which you could be my ''Daddy'', thus your taking of a raincheck is immaterial.
Might I suggest as an aside that many other "pick and mix staples" such as cola bottles, pear drops, 'gummy' bears and worms, jelly babies/beans, shrimps, fizzy dummies and 'chews' may prove more resilient in a downpour, for your future reference
Reply from Fish, received 29/1/2014
Dear Mr Filluppot
While in a meditative trance in the late 80's in a Peruvian burial chamber assisted by Mayan brethren and under the influence of some right wicked rainforest shrooms I had a vision in which you came to me dressed as a mousey Barbara Cartland all in pink like and with
(With Thanks to Gary Clark)