10 Forsythia Grove
CORSETTSHIRE ZY6 4GT
My Dear Ralph
The weather is altogether inclement here in Outer Hamlet this morning and I have been sloshing along the pavements attired in my galoshes and yellow souwester (complete with chin strap). I called in at the ophthalmologists, en route to the postal box, with a request for them to adjust my pince-nez. These items are all very well for the purposes of private reading - reports and so on and so forth - but, out of doors, they can blow off in any slight gust and also tend to slide down my features should I have occasion to perspire.
I must admit, actually dear, that I also tend to avoid wearing them out upon the street because I think they may lend a certain old-fashioned look to my face. And one is still trying to look at least slightly a la mode when seen out and about in town!
I did call round to see my chum Maxwell yesterday evening (he with the partially-dismantled long-range telescope) and there got involved in a rather seamy set of manoeuvres. It transpired, during the course of our conversation, that he has been suffering from a discomforting itch upon his back. And there, upon the kitchen work top, were one or two large tubs of cream which he needed to apply to said portion of his anatomy. So, without actually thinking the matter through . . . I announced that I, myself, was a positive genius in the sphere of therapeutic back rubs. Indeed pet, I may have imbibed one or glasses of vin rouge by then and was possibly not seeing things through a normal set of lenses. Now, as you know, I do tend to approach all of my activities in the most professional manner possible. And the first thing that struck me, having laid Maxwell down on a row of sofa cushions in front of the fire, was that - to apply the fullest necessary stroke - one does require access to an individual's coccygeal bone. This bone, last evening, was unfortunately quite some centimeters beneath the waistband of my chum's trousers. 'You're going to have to take those down you know' I gurgled (in vino veritas so to speak). Really dear, I should have thought to ask for a bath towel to cover his posterior regions and I honestly can't think why I didn't. Anyway, the actual massage was a raging success and Maxwell positively waxed lyrical upon the strength of my palms and my all over foot trampling skills! And, after some twenty minutes of 'cat strokes,' 'side-skin twists,' and 'knuckle presses' he was strongly importuning for a repeat visit at my earliest convenience! In retrospect I suppose, problems only arose when it was his turn to give the techniques a go and I, myself, finished up prone upon the cushions in similar style myself.
Still, it was fun pet, and one doesn't realize how one's back muscles become contracted throughout life and are in thorough need of a good trouncing from strong hands and size ten feet!