Dear Lady Snoop,I cannot tell you how gratified I was when my friend Miss S . . . gave me a pot-pourri of rose-petals from her own garden. Almost as pleased as when another friend Mr R . . . thought they were Bombay-mix and tried to eat them at a party.

Dear Madam, I read that when the Civil Service proposed entrance examinations in 1854Queen Victoria was alarmed:Where was the principle of public competition to end? And would not the careers of those who had not passed the examinations be harmed?But Mr Gladstone said: “Your Majesty I must alert you“That Universities show such examinations to be an effective test of character; “For the industry and self-denial needed to pass them are rarely separated from general habits of virtue.”(Which of course can be readily seenFrom the careers of Guy Burgess, Kim Philby and Donald MacLean.)

My dear Madam,You might be interested to hear of a lady of my acquaintance, Miss L. R . . . . a rather unruly actress of a certain age who fell in love with the husband of a friend. This friend, a cultivated and admirable mother of two, was blind to her husband’s proclivities as noble women often are, (being unwilling to admit that they have chosen foolishly), and had no idea he was deceiving her, so the affair continued for several years. But one day the gentleman developed a serious cancer and was rushed into hospital. His distressed wife phoned her friend the actress to break the news and tell her the cancer was inoperable. It appeared his immune system was too weak and he could no longer put up a fight. Profoundly shaken by this intelligence the actress did some research into effective methods of New Age healing for cancer and then asked her friend:“Have you ever heard talk of Colour Therapy? They say it can produce miracle cures.” The unhappy woman confessed that she had abandoned all hope and was ready to try anything.“In that case” said the actress, “we’ll give him the colour red. Let us search out all that is red in life to give him courage, energy and a new will to live.”So the two friends scoured London hunting for red things to take back to the invalid. He ate red apples, red tomatoes, red cherries and red strawberries, and drank red wine and red raspberry juice. They knitted him a red sweater which he wore over red pyjamas under a red dressing-gown, with a red blanket on the bed and red slippers under it. On his bedside table they placed red roses in a red vase and many red books including the Little Red Book of Mao Zedong, (the colour of the politics being propitious.) And they found him a nurse with red hair.

Then the actress was obliged to leave London to work in the provinces. After a week she phoned her friend who said her husband seemed better. Two weeks later she reported that he had more energy and could go to the toilet unaided in his red slippers. After a month he gave a little party to drink red wine and had so much get-up-and-go that he danced all night with the red-headed nurse and had a dreadful

fight with the doctor and hit him. The next day he discharged himself from hospital and his wife was over the moon. It was a real miracle:

“He’s so strong he can do the housework, play with the children, walk the dog, then go out on the town to drink red wine” she reported. “Sadly he is a bit aggressive, but it’s worth it because he has rediscovered the virile energy of a young man. Thanks to your Colour Therapy he has fully recovered.”And thrilled with her success the actress left to work abroad for six months. On her return she met up again with the wife and found her in tears:“He’s left me for the red-headed nurse” sobbed her friend. “He said he had too much sex-drive for just one woman, and I couldn’t stand sharing him with a mistress. So we’re getting divorced.”The irony of this did not escape the actress, as she had of course been sharing her husband with her for many years. But she was still appalled:“It seems the Colour Therapy was too strong” she sighed as she recounted this tragic story to me. “But hang on” I said. “Don’t you know the colour red stimulates aggression, the passions and sexual energy? If you had really wanted to heal him, you should have given him blue.” Your most humble servant Peter Pottysniffer

Madam,They say that in Singapore in the 1850’s the servant problem was so acuteThat the Governor’s Lady relied solely on convicts to staff the Embassy,As being the most morally stable class in the community.When asked which she preferred to serve nursery tea in the afternoons,Thieves or murderers? She replied “Oh always murderers.”Clearly in Singapore in the 1850’s children were easier to replace than spoons.

(My dear Madam, I am told you need never be idle. Even when you are waiting for a busYou can be clenching your buttocks.)

Lady Malicia Snoop, I knew a young man, a Mr F . . . B . . . in the county of Surrey, who sought true happiness. He said to himself: “I like women very much. What I need to be

happy is a pretty agreeable girl to take to top restaurants and the best West End shows and the Opera, and she can thoroughly enjoy herself watching me play golf on Sundays.” And as luck would have it just at that moment he happened to meet a charming girl to go out with and he was most content.But something was missing, and frankly it was quite expensive to dine always in the best restaurants and go to the Opera and the latest West End hits. And the golf-club subscription was proving beyond his means. “I’m too poor” he said. “What I really need to be happy is more money.”And as luck would have it just at that moment his brother-in-law offered him a job in his fast-food joint. And he was so good at this, (being an affable hard-working fellow), that in three months he was made manager. And after two years he had earned enough money to buy a franchise of his own. And this fast-food restaurant was such a success that his accountant said he had too much money and the only creative solution was to buy another one. And the accountant was so creative and the young man had so much fun that in no time they’d bought a whole chain of them and become extremely rich. And there were plenty of young girls to take out in the evenings. And the young man said to himself: “If I go on like this I’ll be a millionaire. I do like the young women who come to see me in the evenings, but all the same there is something missing to make me really happy.” And as luck would have it just at that moment he saw on TV a great Guru who said that the only true path to happiness was inner peace. And that he ought to learn his method of deep meditation in order to change the world.And the young man said to himself: “I lack inner peace. That is what I need to be really happy. Therefore I will install managers in all my restaurants and put my accountant in charge of my millions so that I can go and live in a spiritual community to learn deep meditation with this amazing Guru who is going to change the world. In that way I can gain his confidence and he will teach me the secrets of inner peace and true happiness. And at the same time I can get to know all the delightful spiritual young women who surround him.” And the Guru was very pleased to make his acquaintance because as luck would have it just at that moment the great spiritual movement to change the world needed money. So the Guru liked millionaires. But not too close to him. As a result the young man, (who was not now so young), lived for seventeen years in the spiritual community without ever being very much cherished by his adored Guru. There were others, even the very poor, who were close to the Guru, but not him. And in spite of all the spiritual young girls that surrounded him the young man said to himself: “Of course I have achieved inner peace and there are plenty of young girls. But how can I be happy when notwithstanding all my millions I count for nothing here, and my adored Guru doesn’t even see me?”And as luck would have it just at that moment the accountants of the spiritual movement to change the world exposed a financial crisis so severe that they couldn’t pay the phone bill. Or even the electricity. And the lights went out.So they went to the young man, (who was now not so young!) to ask for help.And the not-so-young man thought for a bit and then said to them: “I will help you with my money on this condition: That you give me control over everything so that I have responsibility for the whole movement and will be given the power to make all the daily decisions necessary to regulate it.”So the accountants talked this over with the Guru, who admitted there was no alternative. There seemed nothing else to do and the terms were agreed.

So the not-so-young man now controlled everything, and he at once decreed that everyone ate too much, and all you needed for the spiritual life was rice and lentils. And for ten years this went on, while he increased his personal fortune in his leisure hours, and HE WAS HAPPY. He said to himself:“I have the power here. I take all the decisions, but nobody knows I’m really in charge except the Guru. I have all I need, and all the young girls must come to me to get jam for their rice pudding.”But as luck would have it just at that moment the Guru invited some friends to visit the community - very famous Indian Astrologers whose ancient wisdom and esoteric learning qualified them to erect the horoscopes of all those who had the cash to pay for them. So of course our no-longer-so-young man went to get his fortune told: “There is only one risk in life for you” they said. “And that is women. One day you will fall in love with a woman who will steal all your fortune and leave you bankrupt. So watch out!”And what did he do, this no-longer-young-man who was so happy surrounded by spiritual young girls? He threw them all out! And no-one could complain because he held the purse-strings and controlled everything. So there he lives, surrounded by extremely thin undernourished young men, (who were sent out to buy a burger from the fast-food joint by their vegetarian Indian doctor because they were dangerously close to starvation.)And our aging man never sees a woman, but counts his money in permanent fear of the day when he will fall in love and be robbed of all he owns.

I have the honour to be Madam, your most obedient servant,

P. Pottysniffer.

Madam, I am told that on the Town Hall the starlings were so loudYou couldn’t hear the concerts. They tried everything to get rid of them: bangs, electric currents, and funny stuff that stuck to their feet.But they never thought to get rid of the concerts

My dear Lady Snoop,I once knew an admirable man, a Doctor H . . . , much respected and loved by all, who looked in his wallet and found he was missing a fifty pound note.“But where have you been?” asked his wife. “Where could you have lost it?”“I’ve only been to the garage to buy petrol” he said.“So you must have dropped it there. Ask them next time you are passing.”“I shan’t be going past there for another week” the admirable man replied. “And by that time they’ll have spent it. In any case it’s not even worth asking, because he’ll have kept it for himself.”“Don’t be so distrustful” said his wife. “Go and look anyway. Perhaps he is an honest man?”And a week later her husband came home waving a fifty pound note.“I’ve found it!” he cried. “I went to the garage and they told me I’d dropped it.”“Well there you are!” cried his wife. “I told you not to distrust everybody. The garage-man was honest after all. Let’s go out to eat to celebrate.”

And you won’t credit this but I swear it’s true, that in leaving the restaurant the admirable man looked down at the pavement and said in surprise:“Well would you believe it. I’ve found a fifty pound note!” And he picked it up and stuffed it in his pocket.“Hang on a bit” said his wife, “That’s not your money. Aren’t you going to hand it in?”“Of course not” said the admirable man cheerfully, “it’s paid for our meal.” Peter Pee

Madam, A trained beautician, Miss Alluria S . . ., told me once that in order to keep a man you should make sure to shave your legs every day of your life.Presumably no man would be worth the keeping who did not run screaming from the furry legs of his wife.But what this trained beautician did not anticipateWas that she would one day run screaming from the furry legs of her mate.

My dear Madam, You will be interested to learn that patients in a hospital which overlooks a blank wall are found to need three times more pain-killers than patients in a hospital overlooking a garden. And they are surprised. Yours, Statistica Souptaster

Dear Malicia Snoop, As a medical man of many years experience I feel it my duty to expose some seldom-revealed truths about the human body.Starting at the bottom end the FEET are not as everyone supposes to stop your legs from fraying. They are a kind of tassel for showing off with - like this.Some people think you should keep your tassels on the ground. I am against this; I like to keep my tassels elevated to head height; it keeps them fresh.HANDS however are not tassels as is generally thought, but the frayed ends of your arms. I do think HANDS should be concealed. Tuck them away please. (I cannot overemphasize the use of pockets here)LEGS. Too much has been said about LEGS; they encourage fruitless activity and we would be better off without them.The BOTTOM now is really useful. (It’s a silly name for it of course; the tassels are really at the bottom and the BOTTOM is half way up.) Basically it is a cushion and without it life would be tough. The BOTTOM should be kept constantly in touch with other cushions, (beds, armchairs and so forth), to keep healthy. Should you let the air get to your BOTTOM an unaccountable malaise and exhaustion may be experienced and you should sit down at once.The TORSO. I like the TORSO. It has no apparent use, (except to hang your arms and legs from), but it has a refreshing stillness and it looks good.

Loosely speaking the HEAD is likely to be at the top end with the FACE on the front of it. The FACE of course is for putting the MOUTH on. The MOUTH, being the most vital organ of the body, should be continuously exercised with the crispy bits that stick to the sides of a batter pudding. And the NOSE is helpful for locating the position of the MOUTH. (If you can see the NOSE the person is probably sideways.) Of the EYES I shall say nothing except that they should be kept shut.If you have any problems concerning the human body I recommend that you keep them to yourself.Your most obedient servantDr. Cocker-Doodledoo

My dear Madam, You might like to hear about a young farmer, a Mr C . . . of the county of Norfolk, who was very discontented because he was so poor although he worked dreadfully hard day and night. “If only I had a bit more land” he reflected, “I could do something with it. But as things are I work night and day and don’t earn enough to go on holiday.”And as luck would have it there was a delightful little meadow just next to his property, where wild flowers grew charmingly and birds sang sweetly, and it belonged to a dear little old lady with a donkey called Joseph. “That juicy bit of pasture would do me nicely” he thought, enraptured by the birdsong and the lovely flowers, “and it’s much too big for that little donkey.”He knew the little old lady came morning and evening to visit her beloved Joseph and give him sweet hay made with clover and fresh carrots. But with winter coming she was dreadfully worried about her friend because he was out in all weathers and got wet and cold.“If only I had a little shed for Joseph he would be much happier” she told the farmer. “I come every morning and evening to look after him, but I have a bad back myself and I’m not very well. I wonder if you could help me?”“But I have a nice little shed which is completely empty” said the farmer, “and if you like your charming donkey can live there all winter.”“Oh how kind you are!” exclaimed the old lady, “but he also needs fresh-air. He loves the sun and the clouds and listening to the birdsong in the open air.”“Then I can take him out in the morning and put him to bed in his shed every evening” cried the young man good-naturedly.“Ah that’s so thoughtful of you. But what will he eat? I come twice a day you see, to give him his sweet clover hay and carrots, and at the same time I make Joseph a clean little bed of fresh straw so he sleeps well at night.” “I can do all that with pleasure for such a delightful animal” said the farmer.“But you can’t do it for nothing” she cried. “What can I give you in return?”“Well maybe you could let me have that little field over there if you don’t need it? And for that I pledge myself to look after Joseph day and night, winter and summer, for the rest of his life.”The little old lady was ecstatic and promised to see the Solicitor the next day to draw up a deed of gift and make everything legal.“And perhaps you could put Joseph in his shed right away” she said, “as it’s beginning to rain.”

Thus began the farmer’s new life. He had to get up earlier every morning and go to bed later every night because the charming Joseph wasn’t very equable and didn’t at all like the little shed where he found himself; he preferred the open air. And he didn’t care much for the farmer either and gave him a kick when he had the chance. And the farmer also began to dislike his charge and kicked him back when he was stubborn and wouldn’t move. All the same each morning he remade the bed with fresh straw and found sweet hay for him, although it took an hour to drag the animal from his shed to the pasture. “But it’s worth it” he thought. “Because that nice field will soon belong to me.” And every evening it took him an hour to push the donkey back to the shed where he had left his carrots.“But soon” he said, “that pasture with its flowers and birdsong will be mine.” But as everyone knows, the law takes its time. And winter gave way to spring, which gave way to summer, and another year passed and the solicitor was not yet ready to conclude the legal contract. And the donkey got more and more difficult, and the farmer got more and more tired, so that the old lady even enquired if he was ill. Because she still visited Joseph every day. However at last the day came when the documents were produced and the two parties signed them and after two years of waiting the property was his. But the farmer was so exhausted that he couldn’t carry on. “This bloody field!” he said furiously. “What can I do with it? I have neither the time nor the energy to work it. The old lady arrives every morning to ask why the donkey has not been taken out of his shed, and I have to do this every day for the rest of its life. I’m done for!”And he never again visited the pretty little pasture where the flowers grew so charmingly and the birds sang so sweetly. He hadn’t the heart. Yours faithfully Pee-Pee. (Peter Pottysniffer.)

Madam, I am told that the human ear is equipped with many thousands of tiny hairs which in vibrating will enable you to hear a pin drop, and if you listen carefully you will hear it drop, or anyway hear it in your imagination.And it seems that the ear has two functions – to defend itself from noise and to prepare itself for incoming messages. So the act of listening is in fact a creative experience and it is a shame to deprive anyone of an act of creation.I myself feel that it is the performer’s job to deliver these messages in such a way that the act of listening is painless or even experienced as an enjoyable sensation.And that the augmentation of the human voice is an act of betrayal similar to making love with sheepskin gloves on – all human contact is removed by amplification. In other words the use of the microphone should be restricted to the announcement of the arrival of trains at Victoria Station.

(An ACTOR)

####

My dear Madam,I once knew a young woman, a Miss M . . . in the county of Bedfordshire who loved animals so much that she couldn’t eat them and became a vegetarian. One day she went to stay with an old aunt who was extremely poor but loved

her dearly, and there she fell terribly ill with the mumps. Her glands swelled her pretty little face up like a football and she lay in bed groaning with pain. Her aunt, deeply affected, looked for a way to comfort the invalid and alleviate her suffering, but her poor niece couldn’t swallow a thing. Then at last, when she had improved a bit, the old aunt emptied her pockets of all the money she possessed and went to market:“I’m going to give her a treat” she said. “Even if I can’t afford it, I’m going to make her a dish she can eat. I know she has a sweet tooth, and she likes a drop or two, so I’m going to make her a sherry trifle. That will be soft and soothing for her poor throat.”So the old aunt went to the supermarket to buy a packet of strawberry jelly, six fresh eggs to make the custard and some soft light sponge fingers. Then she bought a pint of double cream, (which she’d never bought for herself), and went to the greengrocer’s for ripe peaches, strawberries, raspberries and a little basket of juicy black cherries. She was quite exhilarated buying these luxuries which were new to her, and thought only of the joy on her niece’s face. At the off-licence she bought a bottle of sherry, and arrived home with her purchases, broke but happy. “That should do the trick” she thought. “Everything is soft, light and fresh, and the booze should cheer her up a bit.”First she placed the sponge fingers carefully in a large cut-glass bowl and drenched them with sherry. After that she peeled the peaches, cut them up, and arranged them with the strawberries and raspberries on top of the sponges. Then she soaked the whole lot in strawberry jelly and put it in the fridge to set while she started on a soft rich egg-custard to be poured on top. Then she beat up the double cream till it was stiff, carefully folded in some caster sugar and a large glass of sherry, and arranged it on top in huge white mountains decorated with the ripe, juicy black cherries she had stoned and halved. And at the last moment she poured over it another large helping of sherry and put it back in the fridge to chill. It was finished! The old lady had never spent so much on food in her life, but she had to admit it looked wonderful. And smelt even better.“That should do the business” she cried “that should please her” as knocking on the bedroom door she entered softly: “There! Look what I’ve made you!”“What is it?” asked her niece feebly sitting up in bed. “It’s a trifle! With fresh cream, ripe summer fruits, little sponge fingers in jelly, and the best sherry. Everything that is good for your poor throat.”“Jelly?” sighed the girl, collapsing back into bed. “I can’t eat jelly. It’s made from horses’ hooves.”Her aunt was stunned. “But the horses were dead!” she cried astonished.“All the same I can’t eat it. I have principles. I couldn’t eat that on principle.”So the aunt gave the trifle to a neighbour because she didn’t have a sweet tooth herself and she didn’t want it to go to waste. She had her principles too. As ever, P.P.

Honoured Madam,A hat is for keeping the rain off your head and to keep your hair tidyA peak is for keeping the sun off your face and to keep your eyes shadyWhich is why I wear a peaked hatWhich is called a cap(Or if you like a rain-protecting, hair-tidying, sun-sheltering eye-shade.)

A friend is to keep you company on the long winter evenings and to go for walks withFur is to keep your feet warm and to look niceWhich is why I have a furry friendWhich is called a dog(Or if you like a companionable walk-accompanying nice-looking foot-warmer.)

A man is to organise your life and to help you think clearlyThe law is to preserve the status-quo and to keep you togetherWhy which is why I do not have a legal manWhich is called a husband(Or if you like a demanding, opinionated, self-centred status-quo preserver.)

When you’ve defined the world in this way it makes it much more coherentBut it doesn’t make things any easier to live with.

My dear Lady Malicia,I once knew the daughter of a Chinese peasant, a Miss Z. . . . . of Xongquang Province, who was so beautiful and so intelligent that she wished to escape the severe and challenging Communist regime to study in America. She wanted to be rich and famous and live the American Dream to the full. She had such a strong willpower and such a ferocious intelligence that she won a prized scholarship to the University of California to study Journalism. And there she displayed so much promise that NBC offered her a position in Washington covering their diplomatic news stories on Radio and Television. So commenced her American Dream: she appeared on television, earned good money, wore trendy outfits, ate at the best restaurants and was invited to all diplomatic events at the White House. There one evening at a cocktail party she met a young English diplomat, courteous and elegant with slightly greying hair, wistful eyes and the easy manners of a Public Schoolboy. He was adorable - charming, modest and humorous - so she took him back to her riverside apartment to capture him. She gave him a whisky and soda, seduced him, and finally fell in love with him. And he was too overwhelmed by her passion and ferocious will-power to admit that he already had a mistress in England, a refined, artistic woman who had loved him dearly for years. But the Chinese girl knew this man to be a mother’s boy - the sweetness in his eyes meant she could do with him as she wished - so when he returned to England two months later they were already engaged to be married.Then, as sometimes happens, life threw a wobbly at her. NBC were so impressed by her talent that they offered her a huge promotion for one so young. There was to be a new programme about her country of origin and she would be the only American correspondent. She was over the moon. It was the fulfilment of all her dreams, the ultimate reward for all her hard work.Everyone envied her at NBC. Phoning England she was rapturous about it.“So you don’t want to marry me?” her fiancé asked.“Of course I want to marry you. I’m in love with you. But this opportunity will never come again. It is once-in-lifetime. This job is made for me.”

“Well you must choose” he said. “Either you stay in America to work with NBC, or you come back to London to be with me. You could find a job at the BBC World Service. That would be no problem.”She was aghast. NBC had given her two weeks to decide. All her friends told her to accept the job - this wonderful chance would never come again. And at NBC they didn’t doubt for a moment that she would accept.But at the end of the two weeks she turned it down.“I love you too much” she told her fiancé. “So we can marry when you wish”. Handing in her notice and preparing to go to England, she heard that another candidate had been chosen for the sought-after job. But as she had now a trousseau to buy and cases to pack she thought no more about it.Then a week before her departure her beloved telephoned.“I can’t marry you. I have a girl-friend who has tried to kill herself. She seems to think we are engaged and she is unconscious in hospital. I have to marry her. I’m sorry, but I can’t do anything else.”I don’t know what she said to him or what happened to the poor refined artistic woman in hospital, but after a week our heroine left for England to begin the career of a Diplomatic Wife.However she had changed. Her husband found her amorous exploits even more startling and exotic, but in London diplomatic circles she began to conduct herself in a fashion that was bizarre and even eccentric. Her previous discretion and civility gave way to loud-mouthed vulgarity. And at their dinner-parties she flirted shamefully with the men and told dirty stories, diverting her distinguished guests with a clockwork penis that marched across the table.Of course she found a good job at the BBC where she worked well, and she earned money, (though not what she would have earned in America). But she spent a lot too, her own money and her husband’s. She hated England, but that didn’t prevent her buying the most expensive clothes, going to the top restaurants, or shopping at Harrods. If her husband complained she threw a tantrum and ridiculed him viciously. She was capricious and terrifying. In bed she made him her slave. He was powerless, shocked, disconcerted and captivated. Every day she forced him to buy her a present and now wore a ring as large as a poached egg on her right hand: an enormous emerald set in diamonds and sapphires. “You could buy a house with that” I said to her.“Yes” she agreed. “That was for our anniversary. Pretty isn’t it?”“And with that you can leave him tomorrow” I thought. He didn’t say so, but he knew it. It was in his eyes. And there was nothing he could do about it. But some years later the strain proved too much and the poor man had a stroke. And found himself paralysed and incontinent in a wheelchair for life. And who looks after him, cleans him up and spoon-feeds him every day? Why his elegant, charming and adorable wife of course. For the rest of her life.Your most devoted servant,P. Pottysniffer.

Dear Lady Malicia Snoop,I thought you should be the first to know that I have bitten myself on the bottom.

Yours most sincerely,Hon. Aloysius Bassington-Fart.

Dear Mr Fart,Sounds interesting. Pray elucidate.Yours,Malicia Snoop.

Dear Lady Snoop,In my sleep last night my dentures fell out and got entangled in my pyjamas. I felt the unmistakable nip of something sinking its teeth into my right buttock, and thought my wife was maybe getting a little playful. Alas no! But one lives in hope . . . Yours as ever,Aloysius Bassington-Fart. Hon.

Dear Mr Fart,Indeed one does. The late Lord Snoop once bit me on the bottom and I found it rather exciting. Are you related to the Bassington-Farts of Nether-Overwood-below-the-Dell?Sincerely yours,Malicia Snoop.

Dear Lady Malicia,I bit my wife on the bottom the other night and she cried. She did not realise it was only a bit of fun and thought I was planning to eat her. Not a playful spirit Lady Snoop - her mother was a Wesleyan. Sadly not everyone shares your light-hearted disposition dear lady. Incidentally my uncle Sir Fart Twistleton-Fart of Weston-under-the-Eiderdown, thinks that we too may be related to the Bassington-Farts of Nether-Overwood-below-the-Dell. Yours most respectfully,Peter Pottysniffer.

My Dear Lady Snoop,I believe the original Bassington-Farts came from Upper-Overdown-under-the-Wood. They are distant cousins it seems. A goat bit my wife on the bottom last week and she had to go to A & E. Yours as ever,Aloysius Fart.

Dear Aloysius Fart,I have discovered that my cousins know your cousins and we have been invited to Upper-Overdown-under-the-Wood for Christmas. Maybe you have been asked too? It would be nice to meet you.I hope your wife is recovered from the goat-biting incident. Most unpleasant. Yours,Malicia Snoop.

Dear Malicia,

The event has quite upset my wife, who cannot now sit down at the table; so if she can’t make the journey to Upper-Overdown-under-the-Wood at Christmas, I shall try to come myself and hope to meet you there. I hear Peter Pottysniffer has also been invited, as it seems he is himself related to the Fart family. (The South Herefordshire Farts I believe.)Yours sincerely, Aloysius.

Dear Peter Pottysniffer,I am sorry to hear your wife was distressed by your very natural and healthy attentions. I look forward to meeting her, as I gather we have all been invited by the Bassington-Farts to Upper-Overdown-under-the-Wood for Christmas.Yours, Malicia Snoop.

Dear Aloysius,I gather the Bassington-Farts from Nether-Overwood-below-the-Dell will be joining us at Upper-Overdown-under-the Wood to meet up with their long-lost cousins – so it will be quite a party. I’m told they have all inherited the same lively family disposition, so no doubt there will be games before bedtime. Malicia.

Dear Lady Snoop,The last time I went to Upper-Overdown-under-the-Wood for Christmas, it was death on wheels, but don’t let that put you off. My wife is in a state of nervous collapse, however as the dear creature insists I not alter my plans for her sake, I shall do my best. Anyway my uncle Sir Fart Twistleton-Fart has suggested we meet for the New Year at Weston-under-the-Eiderdown, a charmingly intimate and convivial pile – so if all else fails we may yet get together there. Your devoted servant,Peter Pottysniffer.

Dear Peter,I would love that. But do come at Christmas, I’m sure we have a lot in common. I believe I once met your uncle dear Sir Fart at Glyndebourne for Don Giovanni. I was the one in the green dress with lace inserts tell him. Malicia.

Dear Malicia,What kind of games? - Aloysius.

Dear Aloysius,Sardines probably. - Malicia.

Oh good, I like sardines. Just my kind of party. - Peter.

Mine too. - Malicia.

Wear your green dress with the lace inserts and maybe we could make it a threesome? - Aloysius.

THIS CORRESPONDANCE IS NOW CLOSED – Editor.

If your mother believes in Self-expression You have to paint on an easel, not the floor. And all the sky runs into the sea, Which is depressing for a child of four.

It’s alright though because even at four you can draw a houseWhich is a square blob with a trapezoid for the roofAnd you can draw treesWhich are stalks with round blobs on like lollipops.

And equipped with these skills you are qualifiedTo make Christmas cards.Which are inverted house-roofs on stalksWith a round lollipop at one endSurrounded by stalks for the radianceAnd there you have the Baby Jesus in the manger.

My mother beams happilyFor I am expressing myselfAnd am on message.However I haven’t finishedFor underneath the manger I draw a coiled up snake ready to strikeAnd lay down my pencil modestly.

My mother stares at the pictureWhat does it mean? I am only four years old And have never seen a snake.

She has intimations of a Jungian natureHer child has somehow connected with The Universal UnconsciousAnd what she is expressing is The Archetype of Evil.

“That’s lovely” she says brightly“What does it mean?”“It is a metaphor for the apocalyptic nature of our time” I say,(As the bombers roar overhead),“What did you think it meant?”

But my mother is afraid.For she knows what I really mean.I mean “Give us a break “And Stop banging on about the Baby Jesus!”

A STORY OF TWO LITTLE DOGS

I would like to tell you about my friend who had cancer. She was a

rare, clear-sighted and much-loved woman, married to a religious man, a

spiritual leader of proud Sicilian extraction, who undertook to heal her of

her illness.

They had been childhood sweethearts married for over twenty years, and

as sometimes happens in these cases, they had slipped into an age-old

collusion where the husband is built up into a dominant hero by his wife, to

give her an increased sense of security and stability. This is of course a

fictive strength tending to make the poor man weaker than ever, as he

knows deep down he is just the clown he always was, and much psychic

energy is devoted to the daily rituals of keeping the show on the road. This

is such a common practice that most couples are unaware of their role-

playing and feel themselves blessed to participate in the natural order of

things.

Until things start to go wrong.

Of course anyone can get cancer, (apparently one third of us do), and

nowadays it is not unusual to seek alternative therapies to augment the

oncologist’s treatment at the hospital. My friend in desperation tried many

of them, possibly too many, as she became increasingly insecure and

dependent, and it may even be that her immune system suffered as a

result. Sensing she was confused and bewildered, I sent her a small

stuffed dog called Happy, who arrived at the convalescent home before

she did and was there to greet her. He was her guard-dog I said, and she

seemed to be much comforted by this.

However when she returned home the little dog was seen as an invader of

the marital bed, and a challenge to the healing powers of her husband,

who needed to control operations himself, so when I went to visit her I

found Happy had vanished.

Soon afterwards my friend had to go back to hospital again and was so

disturbed that I sent her another little dog, called Lucky, who needed

someone to talk to. Once again this seemed to do the trick and she wrote

at length about the conversations they had. But once again her jealous

husband could not support the idea of a rival healer and Lucky was sent to

join the Great Doggy in the Sky.

I felt rather uneasy about this, but marriages are private affairs and you

cannot intrude on whatever games are being played.

Although the prognosis for my friend’s recovery was very favourable, she

died not long after, and everyone was very upset.

Six months later her distraught her husband came to visit me, harrowed,

shaken, and bereft of the spiritual faith he had paraded over the years. It

had all been a sham, he said - he had assumed the strong role of healer-

priest in order to support his wife, but having failed, he now confessed he

had no strength at all, and the game was over.

He was carrying a large back-pack which he refused to leave behind in the

car, although it was parked some distance away. It was his wife’s he said,

and he wore it everywhere. I tried to lift it off the ground but could not, it

was too heavy.

It seemed to be filled with stones.

* * * * *

My father lived in the attic and ate dog-biscuitsIt was a lifestyle choiceNot a statement as far as I know -He liked the view from the dormer windowAnd invited us up to watch the sunset.

I think the dog biscuits were a statement thoughOf the “Look what I’m forced to eat” kindThough we never found out why.He would shrug with deeply offended dignityAs if it was necessary to ask!He had been driven to itThough whether by poverty, digestive problems Or my mother’s cookingWe never discovered.

Meanwhile my mother took solace in prayer in the bedroom downstairsIt was a death style choiceAnd she died of it some time later.

This was a statement alrightOf the “Look what you’ve done to me” kind.

It was competitive martyrdom And she won.

We are a family of high achieversWe reach for the stars.Last week I proudly drove my posh new car to the garageResolutely determined to fill up with petrolWhatever the cost.Waving fearlessly as I left the forecourtI achieved a large flatulent bump on the off side rear door.That was the cost.

Nevertheless, undaunted, I ventured next door to clean the bath.There I was horrified to discover a large black dogStaring at me with glowing eyes like the Hound of the Baskervilles.I was aghast.He was my dog Shut in for personal reasons because he fears to lose his mind When the hunters are around.I had forgotten him.

Nonetheless, impervious to dangerI am resolutely determined to make lunchRegardless of what hazards lie ahead.Pray for me.

THE STRANGE STORY OF THE END OF THE WORLDrendered even more astonishing by Google’s translation into “English”

Remember “the end of the world” on 21st December 2011 on the Pic de Bugarach in France? Here a French journalist seizes his moment of posterity to write it up in deathless prose, and very fine it is as you will see. I have changed nothing, in the belief that a true artist is at work.

“When a north breeze dissipates a haze upon tip of a Corbieres, emerges, stately as well as secret, a impiety of Bugarach. The crawl poise a vegetable initial riddle: because do we verbalise of a inverted plateau”? And even when a object luminous radiance full flanks of limestone, an aura of poser still hangs in a blue sky of Aude.“Bug”, such as internal call it, has not accomplished sketch attention. It is called “sacred mountain”. They contend it emanates a singular energy,

absolute as well as unifying. It would be a single of “chakras” a “Mother Earth, that “vibratory rate” volume some-more any year. They additionally contend it would residence an subterraneous bottom for UFO’s. Humans improvising “mediums” explain to have come in to hit with a aliens who have invested (not us, shame.) Finally a little disagree that it would be a single of a integrate of places where land group would tarry a finish of a world, that likely by a Mayan calendar, that ends December 21, 2012.short, simply sort “Bugarach” upon a poke engine to find a enigmatic heated wake up stirred by a tip rise in a Corbieres. Culminating during 1231 m, a Bug as well as crystallizes all fantasies. Already in a open solstice, Mar 21, hikers intrigued asked us in their path: “Did we notice something strange?” The summer solstice additionally attracts a share of extraordinary as well as fauna brand new age. “Marches in conscience”, walking initiation”, initiatives freshness . . . for those who can means it.

he captivate of Pic is growing, to a discomfit of a mayor of Bugarach as well as many residents, who fright not being means to carry out a liquid of visitors in Dec 2012. Rommie, owners of a desirable cottages of a Presbytery with her husband, Sander, does provoke anyone. “Most business come to nature, to a Cathar castles. From time to time a little come for energy, for Bugarach. we similar to starting up for a great view. But about energy, we do not know a initial riddle, a answer is simple: by image tectonics, limestone strata comparison than 135 million years have arisen over precision in in between fifteen million years, reversing a sequence of geological layers. Otherwise, it is insincere that a geographical upon all sides of a rise has catalysed a visionary currents already during work in a area. Who has not dreamed, in fact, a value of a Abbe Sauniere, a clergyman mysteriously enriched after starting work in his church in Rennes-le-Chateau, a integrate of miles from there? (To visit!) Who did not let his aptitude ramble to follow a query of a final Cathars, a preferred as well as undiluted retreat upon a tops of breezy Corbieres? (Surveying a busted castles in tall winds is a singular experience!)

At a tip of a peak. RICHARD DAVID. No need nonethelessEnigmatic beam to entrance a tip of a peak, that is value a glance, even a many Ampoules led pragmatic. A label or phone call to a House of Nature will do. The trail many Ampoules led taken from a of a Linas, 6 km from Bugarach. In reduction than dual hours, we have been right away during a top, considering a Pyrenees as well as a Mediterranean Sea. The approach called “the window” sneaks nearby a hole in a stone face. More air, permitted to great walkers, it takes dual hours from a pour out of Mathieux. The adore of upon foot will do a complete double back from a village. Between 6 as well as 7 hours, together with breaks. The event for a great travel in in between sky as well as earth.

LITTLE MEN BIG WORDS

Words that you spoke

To impress the neighbours

Or pull the voters

To sow the wind

And reap the whirlwind

To sow the headlines

And reap the news

Calling down retribution for generations to come –

Words like

“The War Against Terror”

“Neutralising the Insurgents”

“Extraordinary Rendition”

“British Mandate in Palestine”

“Partition”

“Shock and Awe”

“The Axis of Evil”

“Collateral Damage”

“The God-given right to bear arms”

Just the tip of the iceberg

Add your own, there’s plenty more

More still in the years to come

With editorials

And correspondents

And political commentators

And historians

To assess and analyse and quantify these words

And tell us what they mean.

Words like wasps

Enticed by the oil-rich East

Toxic with greed

Barbed with lust

Consumed by desire

And camouflaged gay as a Village Fete

Words like

“Aid”

“Protection”

“NGO”

“Relief”

“Value Neutral”

“Border Crossers”

“Stability Maintenance”

“Social Harmony”

“Protective Custody”

That herd us joyfully together

And make us feel good about ourselves

While the Exchequer feeds silently

At the petrol pumps.

But there are other words

Unspoken

Hesitant

Confused

Ambiguous

Conveyed by a look or a turn of the head

“I’m not sure . . . ”

“What does this mean . . . . ?”

“I don’t understand . . . ”

“I appear to have lost my way . . . ”

“Can you help me . . . . ?”

“I seem to have got it wrong . . . ”

“I’m sorry . . . ”

“It was my fault . . . . ”

“I made a mistake . . . . ”

These words open doors

And give us hope for the future.

But only big men speak such little words.

******

THE MICAWBER HYPOTHESIS AND INSTANT GRATIFICATION

“Annual income twenty pounds,

Annual expenditure nineteen pounds nineteen six,

Result happiness.

Annual income twenty pounds,

Annual expenditure twenty pounds ought and six,

Bravo young man you have a credit card

And are on the gravy train,

Nothing can stop you now.”

When debt became credit

When liability became opportunity

When adults became children

What happened to us?

Just a twitch of the brain

A slip of perception

An absence of mind

A loss of attention

And black becomes white.

That’s alright then

If black becomes white

Then up becomes down

And in becomes out

We are masters of the universe

And can remake the world as we want it.

So there’s no need to worry

Is there?

* * * *

THIS IS MY TREE AND I’LL BARK UP IT IF I WANT TO

I have not actually got dementia that I know of, (but then I would say that wouldn’t I?) However I have such an interesting life that sometimes words get jumbled up in my head because there are too many in there and they just don’t get used enough. They should get out more.

So the obvious solution is to let some of them out for an airing, to keep them vigorous and up-to-scratch, stop them getting restless and fidgety so to speak.

Some words I particularly like haven’t been used for years and I fear they are becoming atrophied from disuse. WHEELBARROW for example or UMBRELLA. They are satisfying, and you will agree that such noble words should be used regularly, interchangeably if necessary to keep them fit and active.

I live in a country where the stately wheelbarrow is known as a BROUETTE ! (I ask you ! Shades of the Moulin Rouge my dear !) And the dignified umbrella is called a PARASOL ! (Straight out of the Dejeuner sur l’Herbe don’t you think ?)

So I have decided to do what I can to revive these neglected words, whatever the context, and bring them back into prominence.“These Wheelbarrows look nice” I say pointing to the bananas. Or “Give me a kilo of Umbrellas please” to the man at the fish stall.

They just smile. They are so nice to me at the supermarket.

* * * * * *

Now just stop that!I’ve told you before that God doesn’t like itAnd I don’t like itAnd nobody likes itYou think you’re terribly clever don’t you shooting down airliners And - WHO DID THAT?I saw that!Someone just bombed the refugees!

You’ll have to pay for this you know – The culprits will be identified and tracked down – Don’t think I don’t know what’s going on –AND NOW LOOK WHAT YOU’VE DONE!Someone’s just chopped that nice man’s head off!I suppose you think that’s funny don’t you - beheading people –But you won’t get away with it you know Because God doesn’t like itAnd I don’t like And nobody likes itSo just STOP IT!

* * * * * *

It is a factThat the sun happens to be 400 times larger than the moonAnd happens to be 400 times further awaySo they look the same size from the earthThey call this coincidence

It is a factThat new babies smile in their sleepAnd even in the wombThey call this wind

It is a factThat cormorants stand for hours with their wings stretched out They say they do this to dry their wingsAlthough they haven’t been swimming and their wings are not wet(In other words they don’t know why)

It is a fact That dogs don’t wag their tails before they are six weeks oldBecause they have nothing to communicateThey call this late development of language skills

It is a factThat birds sing more when the sun shinesThey call this MATING behaviour!(Are they mad?)

It is a factThat dinosaurs ate flowersThey say it’s because they are protein-richAnd the dinosaurs were herbivoresWho had genned up on their dietary protocolAnd didn’t like the taste of broccoliAnd found the flowers just lying about somewhereThe first convenience food and nourishing with it

Which only goes to showThat scientists will say anything(And make it up when they don’t know the answer)But who dares say so?

* * * * * *

Let us be reckless in Old AgeLet us shout and sing and fall overMake fools of ourselvesThese are the Glory DaysWhat have we to lose?

We have been youHave been slim and trim and glossy and well-dressedHave made a fetish of ourselves Worshipping our image in the mirrorAnxious and appraising

We’ve been articulate and usefulRespected and well-thought-ofQualified and well-indoctrinatedTrailing letters after our names like childrenA force for good in the communityFamous even We have watched our waistlinesOur hairlines and our hemlinesOur carbs and calories and salt intakeAllowing the children in white coats with Mickey Mouse degrees To tell us how to live When we should be telling them

“It’s OK Baby “OK to live a little “OK to fail to falter and fall over“OK to lose the plot and make mistakes“It’s what we’re here for Baby“It’s what Life’s about“Get over it.”

* * * * * *

“Play your function” they say in the theatre

What is my function?

Keep reading the play and you’ll find out.

I don’t appear till Act Three. But I always get a round of applause.

Are you the Detective?

No . . .

The Murderer then?

No . . . I am the cleaner who discovers the body . . .

Then that is your function – to discover the body.

Right.

So why do they applaud you?

I did win Celebrity Drowning at Sea you know . . .

Where you were playing your function . . . ?

Well yes.

So here you’ve been playing the right function in the wrong play . . .

I suppose so. But I still get the applause . . .

This play is coming to an end now

Have I been playing my function?

Or have I been playing the Queen instead of the Waitress?

The Beggar instead of the Astronaut?

Or is it the wrong play?

I am still waiting for the applause.

* * * * *

Stop showing off said MozartDon’t be so damned cleverLet me be the clever one I wrote the music

I ransacked heaven for this easeThis effortless simplicity disguised as craftThis transparency that killed me So you can live

Don’t be so bloody artfulAll this innuendoThese hints and insinuationsLet him reveal the aching truthWho wrote the words

He raided the howling tombs of ancient poetsFor these rhymesThese artless echoes

Only resonances too close to pain Can be so funny and so wise

You are our instrumentStretched to breaking pointYou do not have to interpret itOnly live itTrust usWe have done the work for youYou are in safe hands

We were the A teamThe ultra-professionalsWe knew what we were doingSo play your function And stop showing off.

* * * * *

I have become invisible at lastThe aspiration of those with low self-esteem

It was not difficult(Though painful)I had simply to become disabledAnd walk on two sticks

Apologising to the queue of others Waiting at the checkout I realise there is no needFor they cannot see me I could do dreadful things and no-one would noticeThough sadly the appetite for doing dreadful thingsIs in inverse proportion to the abilityTo do them

Confirm your low self-esteem by measuring your finger length If like me your index finger Is a centimetre shorter than your ring fingerYou will apologise to those who do not even see you

HOWEVER a ring finger a centimetre longer Endows you with “Creativity “Artistic flair“And love of beauty“Making you charming and irresistible“Though sometimes gifted with a roving eye”

On the other handA long index finger makes you faithful

And gives you “Confidence“Leadership“And a personal power to get things done”

So which would you rather beA charming irresistible artistic creep Who apologises to people who cannot see youOr a dynamic thrusting leaderWho sticks like a burr whether you wish it or not

You have no choice it seemsYour finger length determines who you are.

* * * * * * *

Dear Lady Snoop, Twenty-nine years I have spentStudyingReading booksImproving myselfTravelling the worldPursuing my chosen pathReading the newspaperTalking to friendsObserving the habits of strangersDeveloping my mindDiscovering my potentialKeeping abreast of the timesAttending seminarsGoing to concertsGoing to the theatreGoing to church – When I could have been sitting here listening.

Prince Gautama, Lumbini, Kapilavastu, Nepal. Copyright E. J. Ward 2014