I am sure many of you have been desperate to find out what has happened to my correspondent since the unhappy incidents of the summer. I know I have. So here it his latest letter.
It is with great joy that I write to you at this time. All legal proceedings from the unhappy village fete having run out of steam I found myself free to take the air in London town the other day. And what a surprise I received. It turns out our chaps had won some rugger competition. I had always believed this to be somewhat against the spirit of sportsmanship. Still, apparently the RFU is all professional now and thus the chaps were able to give one in the eye to Australia. Which makes a pleasant change.
I had stepped out of my club for a quick constitutional when I was greeted by a sea of red and white and much singing of a popular South African song. After many strange looks and not a little uncouth working class language I eventually discovered that it was a victory parade. And jolly good fun it was too. Made a pleasant change from my legal bolt hole where I had been hiding I can tell you.
I have been spending the last few months hiding on a small Scottish Island whose name escapes me. Due to an interesting quirk in the paperwork that passed this island from Norway to Scotland anyone named Olaf is exempt from Scots law. Which is handy when the hounds of Lincoln Inn are after you and you can lay your hands on a faked birth certificate. Unfortunately all the islanders are called Olaf, even the women, and there is nothing to eat except pickled herring. They have some damn fine malts though. I can also recommend the grouse and something called a 'Kay-lay'. This appears to be a big song and dance occasion with much playing of their infernal pipes but plenty of their malt. But of course, you yourself are Scotch and know of what I speak.
Anyhoo, I must off as I have to arrange the St. Nicolas for the Club's seasonal festivities.
Near the North Pole with beater and large net.
Next time - When Festivities Attack.