Dear Mr. Hussey of The Mission

Re: Garden Of Delight

Thank you for your kind invitation, received this afternoon through the medium of ¬†a home-made ‘mix-tape’ that I found whilst finally getting around to converting my son’s old bedroom into a miniature gymnasium.

After careful consideration, which prolongated well beyond your august orchestral poignancy, “brooding vocal” and breathtakingly majestic vignette into “I Hate Nerys Hughes” by Half Man Half Biscuit, I have decided it only licit to bequeath to you my adjudication in as ubiquitous delineation as the grandeur of your entreaty has eminently merited.

Diary permitting, in principle I am not averse to steering you towards ambrosial grounds some time, but am unable to do Tuesday afternoons owing to an enduring Gala Bingo commitment. I would suggest Alum Chine, near Lymington and just adjacent to the B3065, as a most excellent setting for our proposed rendezvous. Previously a failed copperas mine, the maladroit tincture fount sadly fell into neglect from approximately 1650 until over this wasteland was eventually agglomerated a Robert Louis Stephenson genuflecting children’s recreational plot, a bowling green, a paddling pool (the surface of which with a slight breeze, you may be pleased to learn, could well put one in mind of a liquid windswept mirror) and, crucial to your solicitation, the sumptuous Argyll Gardens attraction, popular with visitors worldwide.

If it is a hot day you may wish to dispense with your customary big black hat, long coat, cowboy boots and other obsidian, ‘goth’ attire in favour of something a little more Summery, such as perhaps a sun visor, light linen shirt and slacks, and flip flops, although your perennial insistence on the wearing of sunglasses irrespective of your surroundings will at last be fully justifiable. You attestation to the fact that you are "covered in burns that may never heal" does imply that you may have been careless in the past, hence I heartily implore you to apply factor 50 to any preternaturally wan exposed patches as previously seen in your ‘pop videos”. If on the other hand your scorched dermus is resultant of you playing with fire”, “shooting up stars” and/or “dancing in the flames”, then not only was this a very silly thing to do, Mr Hussey, but your pyromaniacal antics and impromptu gyrations will not be tolerated by the cultivated tracts legislators, Bournemouth Borough Council, whose byelaws, clearly set out in The Local Government (Miscellaneous Provisions) Act 1982 strictly forbid “the lighting of fires or ¬†discharging of fireworks” or “public shows or exhibitions without consent”, in any of their complexes.

Finally, I must state that I am averse to taking your hand and leading you to the garden of delight, for reasons similar to those that I explained to Ralph MacTell some time ago, ergo that being a happily married man I fear that such a gesture may “give off the wrong signals”; in any case, such guidance would be unnecessary given that access is clearly marked.

Subject to these terms being to your satisfaction I look forward to liaising with you in the near future with a view to agreeing a mutually convenient date and time.


Derek Philpott

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