...will take place this coming at 1100 this coming Wednesday, 26 January, at Grey’s Monument in Newcastle.
The agenda is:
1: Any Other Business
A splendid time is guaranteed for all.
To add lustre - even glamour - to this already momentous occasion, I am inordinately delighted to say that I recently received a letter postmarked ‘85p to pay’. I knew at once who it was from (or, to be pedantically grammatical, from whom it was).
Fearlessly, I reproduce it unexpurgated below.
The Old Vicarage
Felicitations my dear Mr Robertsfield on an achievement which, knowing you as I do, I always thought was an impossibility: 250 message twirts (or whatever they’re called) on the digital interweb.
You may be surprised to know how intimately I keep abreast of your sojourns - keeping abreast being a skill I have honed most carefully over my years here at Esh Winning.
Each Friday evening, after a light, six-course supper at Burke’s Corner, I repair to my study (the littlest room in the vicarage), gather the tails of my frock-coat under me, snuggle down in my Stannah Comfilux Recliner and gaze out for a moment at the flashing neon lights across the valley which tell me that Waterhouses has once again swung into riotous night-life mode.
Then I pull out a sheet of foolscap, grab my Waterman in my right hand and begin the arduous process of writing Sunday’s sermon.
But whenever I think of Lazarus rising from the dead, I somehow think of you, too, and am immediately distracted (in both senses of the word). I discard my warming posset and my singin’ hinny (saving them for later) and am at once riveted by your cogitations. It’s as if my whole body has been seized by the narthex. At moments like these, I can look at my housekeeper, Mrs Tragedy, and be oblivious of the work her busy fingers are doing on my hassocks.
The exciting (if clumsily-written) adventures of your Grand Tour last year reminded me very much of my own evangelical younger days, when I was glad to accept a few missionary positions with the devout and passionate ladies of the Rio favelas. Yes, in those days I was able to save many young women with nothing more than my crozier. I even saved a few for the Bishop himself.
My life has changed a great deal since then, though. My dear wife Concepta passed over to the other side last September; she’s now living in Yorkshire with a boarwalker. (I enclose a photograph I took of her moments before the taxi arrived.) This melancholy event has, though, given Euphemia and myself an opportunity more deeply to explore each other’s nooks and crannies. She explores my nooks and I explore her crannies.
So fulfilling have these journeys of mutual discovery been that I am delighted to tell you that we intend to consummate our union in public soon. Yes, I am to become an Overall-Burke by default, as it were. At last I will be able to augment my meagre stipend with the residue of the late Algernon’s sweet pickle and toilet-roll tube empire.
Perhaps you and your fellow-truckshunters could hold one of your AGMs at Burke’s Corner by way of celebrating my upcoming nuptials. I would be more than happy to show Hildie, Vivienne, Linda and Ada what my darling Euphemia has to look forward to.
And Euphemia is wondering if you’d like to give her away. Her sister Hortense will not be available, unless they agree to release her on temporary license.
I look forward to your prompt and favourable response
Rev Unseemly Dogposture
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