… the Larch.
As a prolific letter-writer, I feel I must protest about the previous letter. I am nearly sixty and am quite mad, but I do enjoy listening to the BBC Home Service.
Is there somebody else up there we could speak to?
Anne Elk, not Anne Expert.
Well, that’s all from BBC Television for this evening.
Well, you see, the thing is, I thought your son was a lady.
Old woman!
I’ve fallen off my chair, Brian.
Oh, Dennis, forget about freedom. We haven’t got enough mud.
There’s nothing wrong with you that an expensive operation can’t prolong.
And it looks like this.
Look! There’s the old man from scene twenty-four!
Are you the brain specialist?
My brain hurts!
Do you want to come upstairs?
Hello, well I was the third voice you heard just now. I’m sorry about that terrible mess.
It’s….
‘To Ma Own beloved Lassie. A poem on her I7th Birthday. Lend us a couple of bob till Thursday. I’m absolutely skint. But I’m expecting a postal order and I can pay you back as soon as it comes. Love Ewan.’
Ooh! We forgot the anaesthetic!
And that, my liege, is how we know the earth to be banana-shaped.