"Dear you know who you are
Where are my pants? I know you took them. They were a nice set of pants or, to be politically correct, jeans. What am I doing to do now without my lucky jeans? How else will I preform my dance at the clubs? Talking about places where you can dance, to the guy next to me in the urinal at the bowler last thursday can you please not stare at my dick. It gets uncomfortable and makes the conversation awkward. Also, is there anything else happening at university except for the great marijuana cock fight (can you spot the theme in the letter)? It's all we seem to hear about these days. Why not focus on the fact that the Gum Mix lolly packs have got smaller yet the price has remained the same (disclaimer: I can't remember what the older price was but the new one is quite high). I will now return back to my sitting in the libray and stearing at nothing in particular.
P.S. What the fuck does P.S. stand for? Why not just use 'Thought we were finished but you are wrong!'?
P.P.S That was a rhetorical question."
That was the best one. But I must share a couple more:
"dear anyone who comes into st davids lecture theatre late, please shut the door quietly or you can fuck right off.
The lack of spacing there really increases the rage factor. St. David's Lecture Theatre, if you were wondering, is probably the biggest lecture theatre on campus (and a lecture theatre is just the Kiwi way to say 'lecture hall' or 'classroom').
This is the last letter I will share from this week. It's pretty existential:
Oh how glorious to be described as 'the drinking man's crumpet' (21.7.08). When you are a woman of a certain age, being thought of as crumpet of any sort has to be a plus, even if your attractiveness increases with the level of said drinking man's blood-alcohol. The beauty of alcohol, when you have me for a companion, is also that the more you drink the less need you feel to make sense of any of my pronouncements. What I do wonder, sometimes when I am alone and sober, is what sort of a crumpet am I. Crisp, but not burned would be my preference, but my perception may be dulled by all that social drinking I have been forced to endure in order to be appreciated.
I would like to delve into my favourite topping too, but that might be misinterpreted. Unseemliness from crumpet past its use-by date is just plain embarrassing.
The Critic, by the way, is