|It was always colder when we were young. In 1947, Britons couldn't heat their homes from May to October.|
Well, if you won't leave London, I am going to leave this bed, and that will be the last you hear of me for a few months, as I shall have a fourth on hand to go with the three I've already produced. (Really, what was I thinking? Oh! That your son is so handsome and funny. Never mind. . . It's a girl's weakness.) I am handing the letter over to Reggie, as the Navy is not keeping him that busy this summer. He will forward it to me from Hawaii, and I will act as final editor and perhaps comment on the particular delicates. (For example, it is not true that Fat Chow aimed for the eye. He used that compact parachutist's carbine we procured in '43, and the power of the rifle cartridge popped the man's eye out, he tells me. Although I suspect that he's not averse to it adding to its legend, and I am certainly not looking at monocles for the next time he drives me up to see the Engineer!
So there we have it, a long-delayed message about the dangers of crossing our family, but unfortunately muddled, as we can hardly stop Italian men of respect from taking credit for it.) And speaking of long-delayed family business, I suppose I should mention that the Engineer's bastard is now the president of his union. He may not be able to make money doing the job, but I have a feeling that he will find a way to make a career out of representing those who can.
A reimagined Forties novelty song, in honour of this post's technological Next Big Thing --Silly Putty. I'm not sure I like the video. I'm working on the principle that I might as well give a living artist the exposure. If you want to hear something closer to the original "'m a lonely little petunia in an onion patch," go here.