My Dear Lucas,
I trust this letter finds you in a satisfactory level of health. The heavens can vouch that I spent a small fortune having the damn thing immunised. Ever have you attempted to make writing paper absorb soluble medicine? An unenviable nuisance, I can wholly assure you, my friend. Still, what with this seal-flu pandemic arising in time for the winter season, it is better to be safe than to be sorry. Several of my acquaintances have fallen victim to the disease and I can testify to the horror of the condition. The palms of their hands are raw and bloodied, several have suffered near terminal Omega-3 overdoses and they’re all wearing bowties (although I vaguely recall this was the case prior to their diagnosis).
The season has been harsh, has it not? A true test of perseverance for each of us all, and one that I promise has played cursed havoc upon our yearly trade. The Moulders Union went on strike once more and delayed further shipments, all for the desire to have the lavage luxury of radiators flanking the belts. Radiators! In my days in the mines, we stayed warm by grating our skin off and smothering the wounds with chilli, topped off with a quick round of underground sodomy. That soon fights off the cold, let me assure you, although as I think back, the climate was seldom wintry in the mines. Still, it passed the time.
But radiators! A ridiculous claim, to be entirely certain. Were they to work to their fullest capacity, their damnable warmth would birth itself. In addition they ask for safer conditions, a comment so swathed in mindless ambiguity, it barely creates sense. Indeed, wouldn’t we all enjoy safer conditions in our day-to-day existence, but I’ll be damned if they expect to find my signature decorating the bill for safety harnesses, all because a single twelve year old slave-boy found pathway into the furnace. “Are you completely blind?!” I begged of him as I played spectator to the boy waltzing with apparent glee into the firey abyss. Turns out that, yes, he was. He had that awful macular degeneration condition. Blind as a bat, the poor boy. Made a brilliant Quality Manager nonetheless and I feel a slight sorrow toward my loss, not to mention the unions’ typical overreaction to the whole mess.
Surely you’ve no reliance upon me to journalise to you the constant tedium of the outrageous demands and requests of such a torrid modern-day working class, but it is the thousands of their own women who will be at loss come the setting sun. The men of the union will feel a sterner chill come their wives ‘squirty time’, if you would allow me to jest. But let me not bore you with the monotony of my industry, when there are so many other issues that are to be pressed.
Marion bids you well, in as far as I can comprehend. I rarely visit the basement these days but in those sporadic occasions on which I daringly venture for a long lost vintage, she appears to call your name from beyond the bandaging. I believe the doctor frequents her presence more often than I, but I’ve no time for his continual badgering and claims of urgency and request to at least have her ropes slackened what with the Moulders Union holding their current position. It would appear that the level of doctor is no longer achieved without traces of a pure ignorance of the industry. Even the coons will be awarded the status of educated at this rate.
My young Gillett continues to baffle with his frivolous dalliance. As is to be expected, all follow peculiar paths at that period of youth but his comings and goings are near beyond understanding. Minding his studies appears well beyond his foremost priorities, always preoccupied amongst recreation with his partially-coon friend, Tony (who is surely as far from sainthood as one could dread to be, I can wholly assure you, my friend). I don’t brave to consider the repercussions were I to behave in such manner in the frame of my own father’s eyes. Firm discipline at the hands of father’s barbed piano wire would be in order, without a bead of doubt to be sure. I’ve a right mind to resuscitate his method. It cornered our family’s adolescent minds firmly into the right pew at an early age, and the scars were nothing a sharply tied Windsor could not contain from the always-prying view of the constabulary.
I fear I’ve forgot to mention my recent acquisition of a lovely estate higher north. ‘Twas a surprise, to be sure, but purely a pleasant one. It previously belonged to my recently deceased cousin Adriana, a women with such terrifyingly unmanaged hygiene that she could sickeningly cupcake you at all times with her vaginal cavity, a filthy habit with which she seemed infinitely passionate. I didn’t attend her funeral in person, but I did send to her husband the standard floral arrangement and a small note advising that I approved of her departure. I also kindly offered him a fortnight period in which to remove himself and his possessions from the grounds, else I set the falcons upon him, as I wish to turn the building into a brothel. Haven’t heard back.
Beyond all else, the days pass well for us. The help has suffered somewhat, as my dear Clifford has fallen to seal-flu in his maturing years but the agency has sent an acceptable replacement; the rather foppishly named Pierre and he continues the work. He fulfils many of Clifford’s varied responsibilities with the added benefit of having not been wounded so fiercely in the war. As patient as I forced myself to be with Clifford cleaning the library shelving, a manservant possessing the complete use of his legs is a welcome reprieve and I no longer spend countless shillings on vases to replace the ones that I threw at Clifford in my understandable fury.
At the flattering advice of others, I’ve commenced the organization of my many odes into something of a compendium. Although substantial, my friend Dirkle at the local press has requested additional material in order to facilitate a fuller publication so I’ve been composing several pages in the recent weeks. Attached is an ode I penned Monday passed, in rather a raw stage I’m afraid, but I’d plead for your opinion nonetheless. I’m worried that there’s not enough semi-colons (they’re quite popular in the industry at current times).
May I ask of your family, my friend? I pray they stand well and that Verna has overcome her horrific ailment. And indeed I beg to hear of your own industry in these troubling times. Understandably it resides without the torrid mutterings of wretched unions made up of diabolical Moulders, Latex-Workers and Vein Artisans, but I desire to learn the associated dilemmas of one in such an interesting business.
It is with regret I part, my dear Lucas. I’ve made agreement with Sir Baggy Smacker (the two of you met recently at his sadly mistimed rapture-day lunchtime ‘pants-off dance-off’, as I am told to believe) to provide advice on his acquisition of various lots at the upcoming auction of Matthew Broderick’s possessions. The estate has decided, it would seem, that ‘dead on the inside’ is dead enough to begin liquidation of one’s assets and Baggy has his heart firmly set upon the toothbrush utilised in the opening scenes of Ferris Bueller’s Day Off (a film I’ve little doubt Gillett’s own unleashable rebellion feeds upon). A trivial addition to one’s abode, one might presume, but Baggy is something of a fanatic in these areas, ever since he successfully bid for the chewing gum as masticated by the odious maverick in that Breakfast Club fiasco.
Until your next correspondence, I bid thee well, my dear Lucas. May God speed Verna’s recovery and lay blessing upon Swipple Manor and all who reside within. I hope your industry is smiled upon during these hard times, and that damned Trenton Berrick of the Waxers Union lays to rest his feeble claims. I always felt him to be a right cunt.
Your dear friend,
Thomas William Overend