10 Forsythia Grove
CORSETTSHIRE ZY6 4GT
I am not sure that I am feeling altogether lucid dear and I may not be up to the reporting of yet another incident. I ran out of milk yesterday, and even individuals afflicted with swollen salivary glands have to make the occasional cup of tea/ingest a morning bowl of cereal. So, well swathed in my stripey python neck scarf, I set forth along Outer Hamlet's alleys to Economy Fare. En route, I was utterly riven with abdominal spasms - to the point where I actually had to stop to let them wear off. Foolishly however (as is my wont) I decided to repair to the Beetroot Inn for a nip of something fortifying. This was a big mistake for, just as I was stretching out my hand for the requested tot of rum, my vision started to fade and I realized that I was about to lose consciousness. It is altogether ghastly dear when one keels over - in public - and ends up prostrated on the floor surrounded by a crew of onlookers. I managed to veto someone's suggestion to call an ambulance (denying any suggestion that I was afflicted with either epilepsy or diabetes) but it was a full ten minutes before I could attempt to stand. And, when I did, I didn't last long before I had to repair to my position on the floor again. Also, I had the very nasty feeling that, if I didn't reach a convenience, that I would soon be experiencing the humiliation of a full-scale attack of dysentery in front of a whole ensemble of strangers! The 'ladies' was, of course, upstairs - and the staircase to it minus a set of bannisters. I didn't dare attempt to ascend to said facility in the state I was in. Fortuitously, however, I was able to prevail on a couple of gentlemen to carry me to the 'gents' located on the ground floor. This premises did at least have a cubicle with no-one in it, but was entirely lacking in toilet paper. Not even a cardboard roll was present! I had to shout, 'Yoo hoo dearies! Could someone pass a roll of paper under the door for me?' Dear me. One spends much of life trying to avoid making a gigantic spectacle of oneself and, on this occasion, I was a spectacular failure! I have spent the past couple of days wondering what could have been behind this misfortune. And I think that the gift of an anonymous box of chocolate liqueurs - thrust through the letter box while I was out - might be responsible. It is just possible that I may have acquired an enemy of two as a result of my activities 'out in the field' and that someone has tracked me down! Crab meat toxin is almost invariably fatal and I feel that it was only immediate liquid efflux, whilst ensconced on the pot at the Beetroot Inn, that saved me.
I'm not sure I can write much more pet. I am feeling a little peaky and not even the (undoubted) joys of sticking snowflakes on my sitting room windows, and wrapping maroon and green ribbons round my wall candelabras, can replenish my sapped reserves.