Correspondence With Fent Poorly
Fent is delighted to have received this letter from an
The darling lights may be on some form of a strike at the present moment, but wouldn't you say that it is for the best that we do not look too far into this impeding danger of fateful blows? It must have been around this time of year last that the person of whom we speak departed from this mortal twining, but the annihilation of the strange atmospheric playwrights that now plague this small area is on the increase, yet we know not why. Maybe you were really the one who was laying back there, all innocent in your VW, as the shells of unreality bombarded the miscreated soup enveiling the signs we saw. How smug. How self-righteous you sit now, besides me in a state of perpetual groanings of the small mash you made, how evilly deceptive your prose. Now the time has come, as it often does in this way and in these parts that see little sun, that the perpetrator of said light effects has to don the armoured attire of oncoming day. Perhaps you will learn from this mistake, for we know it is you, and we will not allow it to happen again.
So he replied, evidently, with this:
Dear [Mystery Person 'X'],
I believe it is with little gratitude and some haha-ing that you are forced to accept these present ducklings of apolitude on the belatory nature of this reply. One is, frankly, exhausted from one's accumulated tardiness, although laccessive catering duties are convenient scapegoats in these "modern" times.
Have to have said that, and be that as it may be to be believed, hardly has the writing been thrust upon us that my observers find themselves somewhat unable to recognise the coherence of thread within your electrical mail message (as I understand the _en vogue_ term to be) that would be expected if, say, our current shapes were engaged nose-to-nose.
To be true, in a relative sense, one of these three prone observers (let's simply call him Derek for Heaven's sake!) is now saying your clarination was scant, bare, and disgustingly ethereal. What bare-ruddered cheek, I say!
No; to me you have picked the finest flower from God's face and I confess to feeling no less than stumbling and crackshaven under the weight of congragulation and festival.
You are absurdly right, of course: the annihilation pegs upwards, and I have made more mash today than you could care to groan at.
My Great godson whispers to me that one of you is not my wholesome author but a "male forwarder". He was too busy in Gwent yesterday to translate further, but his last words, before his psychic calamity, appeared to me to be very like "tharr's students pooling yarr chain, Great Godpa". His mother will, I fear, be required to administer that final, terrible prescription before the next General Election, leaving me in the most awful doubt.
I remain forever beneficial,
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