Case Of The Sweaty Letter Blog


Am currently sat in the serene comfort that is the 20.35 Met line service out of Baker Street. This is because I have just finished the early set at the jazz club of Mr. R. Scott ( deceased) which concludes at the extremely civilised hour of 20.00. I mention this in passing as it places me in the vicinity of Piccadilly Circus tube in order to commence the journey back to The Gables and the loving company of Her Indoors. Mindful of maintaining this status quo, I had volunteered to put a letter in the post for her in order to save her from the arduous trek in today’s lovely horizontal rain containing sharp bits around the corner to our local letterbox. Given that the letter is made out to Messrs. Futz and Blaggit of North Finchley, an esteemed firm of chartered accountants who, touch wood, have successfully kept the revenue at arm’s length for the last twenty years, I can only assume that the letter contains her Tax return, or some such nasty, and must therefore be accorded the import befitting of the holy Grail. Especially as the karma of the whole situation had been compromised by the fact that it had spent the gig in my inside jacket pocket and I had inadvertently sweated upon it whilst bracing myself under the hot stage lights against the tumultuous force of my own creative magma.

Needing somehow to make up for this, I thought it would be pretty simple to pop it in the post at Piccadilly and get on the tube. How wrong I was. Despite being the United Kingdom’s uncontested epicentre for the distribution of tat to tourists, and despite a large proportion of this tat consisting of several cubic miles per day of postcards depicting teddy bears dressed a beefeaters, Lady Diana, bare women’s fronts made up to look like whimsical puppies and glow-in-the-dark London eyes, once Hank and Connie have written the fun-filled message to the folks back in Wichita, swingin’ London bites back by not providing a post box. At least not in the patch I was looking in. All the way from the back of what used to be the Cafe Royal to Ripley’s Believe It Not. I didn’t. With time marching on, I decided to get on the train, and am now nearing North Harrow. Four more stops to Moor Park, and Her Indoors waiting in the Mercedes-Benz. I’m going to have to own up. By the time I get a couple of paragraphs on, I’ll have transferred this from the iPhone to the PC at the home office, or kitchen, in the Gables. We’ll know the outcome by then. By explaining this, I’m indulging in a small amount of TV Makeover False Jeopardy, in which Maureen’s stunned expression on returning home to find her living room painted Lime Green is trailled during the early phases of the show while the plasterer is just finishing the pointing on the piece of stapled-in met which has been erected over the original Victorian fireplace. A first for the Plog! Tune in after the break……

DAY 2, 9 Janury 2014
It’s tomorrow now, or looking at it the other way, all that went on yesterday. Experience early on with the trauma of The Incident Involving the Classroom Inflatable Globe And Timmy Green’s Compass of 1974 has taught me that when faced with an hideous balls-up of my own creation, stoic owning up is the best policy. I had the foresight to take a snapshot of the sodden envelope just before I got off the train last night- here, dear juror, is exhibit A-

As you can see, sodden to within an inch of its life, and no longer fit for purpose. Honesty paid off, and you will be relieved to know that I was let off the hook almost instantly. Mind you, all that was eighteen hours ago now, and it is yet to see the inside of a postbox. Better get a move on.

I tell; you what, that Dapne DuMaurier’s a bit of a bugger. Not a huge amount has gone on this week, mainly consisting of relaxed work on the Seaplanes of the Axis powers diorama. I’m sure you’ll all be delighted to know that the Heinkel 70 is now complete, mainly because of the genteel stimulus of the in-shed entertainment offered by the BBC iPlayer.

On offer was a three part dramatisation of her novel, The Birds. Having only a scant knowledge of the Hitchcock film, I thought it a good idea to check out the source material whilst gluing small pieces of aeroplane-shaped plastic together. As I suspected, tits and finches turn nasty, and about three minutes before the end of the final instalment, I was left wondering how our hero was going to save himself and his young family from the waves of kamikaze seagulls. Three minutes to go, I thought, he’s going to have to do some quick work to save mankind. He doesn’t- mankind cops it and the story ends with his last fag by the fireplace. Nightmares have ensued, without the use for pre-bedtime stilton on toast. I suppose it represents savings for the Gables’ monthly stilton budget.

Just as a parting shot, I had an appointment today at the fertility clinic in order to perform an act of a singularly unromantic nature. On the way out, there was a suggestion box thingy with “How Was Your Visit Today?” on the front. I present this fact without comment.

DAY 3-
The letter is still here. It has now been in and out of London’s Glittering West End, to Folkstone via Oxford and back to The Gables twice. It would have had a shorter ride had we just posted it to Mombasa and been done with it. Her indoors is watching Rip-Off Britain in the Home Cinema and Leisure Suite, or Front Room. She wonders why only ugly people go on the telly to whinge. Jast another fact without comment.

I’ll crop up on the interweb again once we’ve got the letter in a postbox.