10 Forsythia Grove, Outer Hamlet, CORSETTSHIRE, ZY6 4GT
My Dear Harriet
I must say dear, that I have always been faintly disconcerted by the apparent forwards bulging of my house facade, but it never occurred to me that the whole front might actually fall off. However, last Monday morning, I woke up to find that I was exposed, in bed, to the whole world passing by my picket fence.
I don’t know how I didn’t hear what must have been a giant roar from the rag stone jettisoning itself on to the grass; I must have been snuffled under my arctic-rated duvet. And the ice from the early morning had crystallized upon it, and upon my hair.
My pussies, Chumley and Meribel, had heard however and – when I finally raised my eyelashes – the first thing I saw, in my new view of the world, was them sitting just inside the fence availing themselves of the attentions of passers by on their way to the shops, or to the bus stop. Their attentions were also somewhat focused on Your Truly – whose candy-pink bed socks must have been protruding from the bed covers, and whose posterior might have been displayed slightly in the aperture between duvet and bed sheet.
It is clearly impossible to stay, isn’t it, until repairs are effected? But I have recalled that my old friend and ally, Pom-Pom Percival (he who spent my pension lump sum on the horses) is still alive and resident at the Perfect Retirement Housing Complex, some 40 miles distant in Gollumshire.
He did write to me at Christmas, continueing to importune for forgiveness, but as I still, largely, have the hump, I’m afraid I did not reply. He also mentioned that there are several apartments vacant in his building, staffed, as he said, by an individual going by the name of Our Leader.
Whether or not these are actually promising tidings, I have yet to ascertain.