Your stuff arrived through my door today and I gotta say I was impressed. There it was on top of the cat, with the lil bastard gasping for air, bloody great novel or something. I thought for a second you may have delivered a work of true genius, but then I picked it up and did my back in. Needless to say, I was not happy. After smashing up a couple of plates and kicking the door for half an hour, I decided to take a fresh look at the situation, which was fortuitous, as I was about to run out of china and it was getting close to lunch time. After much sweating and strain I was able to manoeuvre your pile of scribbles on top of the coffee table, it groaned bit then one one of the legs only went and fell off. That could have been the final straw, but I am a patient man and am well used to the frustrations of the world, which is lucky for you, otherwise I might have had to do something unpleasant. Anyway, I sat down and figured it was probably safer to read it where it was. Little did I count on the sharpness of your paper. I had barely got past your dedications when I nearly sliced my thumb clean off turning the page. ‘This is not good’ I thought to myself. I wondered if this whole thing was some kind of set up. If you were out to get me or something. I realise, and hope that you are not that stupid, but think I must keep in mind the possibility, due to the damage you have caused me. Either way, I have come to the conclusion that you had better get over here pretty quick and remove the injurious text from my office, post haste. Watch out for the cat on the way in; he wants a word with you.

Mr B


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