Sinister: Underground activity

[Ianjames]

Dearest Sinister,

My deepest apologies for the amount of time that has passed since our 
last correspondence.  How I have longed for your communications but, 
since they do not come, I have had to find other means of distraction 
and edification.  As you will know, it had long been my custom to take 
the Autumn airs - a carriage up to Thrumpingham Hall, and a brisk stroll 
around the grounds with the Reverend Cobblepot and his splendid daughter 
Florence usually suffices.  However, in recent times I have become less 
inclined to venture into the chill; avoidant of precipitation and 
desirous instead of a warm, reviving fuck -

No, a fire... a warm, reviving fire, and a perusal of the works of John 
Bunyan, Alexander Pope or perhaps, if levity is required, I will permit 
myself a gentle chortle at the intricate meanderings and fictional 
absurdities of that popular tome know as New Testament. This volume of 
stories never ceases to bring amusement.  It is as if you were here, 
once more, my friend: telling us your ribald stories of indigenous woman 
showing their ankles in public, and men going about without their 
waistcoats.  We would always feign shock that such things could be, but 
I believe many of your audience may have harboured a secret wish to 
experience such novelties for themselves.

That we have had to become accustomed to living without such tales, my 
friend, is not to say we do not recall them fondly; nor that we do not 
wish for their return.  Often, in the midst of a particularly irksome 
needlepoint session, an over-long sermon or one of those tiresome visits 
from the local peasants, I find my consciousness has left my immediate 
surroundings and drifted to -

DANCING.  DANCING LIKE A NINJA!  ON THE TABLES!  TEQUILA!!!

Forgive me, no, that was not quite what I intended.  My mind has drifted 
to the times we would spend together.  Who can forget those pleasant 
moments, tinged as they are with the awareness and regret of subsequent 
occurences?  I rarely see our mutual friends any more.  Constance has 
never entirely recovered from her altercation with a gypsy, and 
subsequent tumble down the Lyme Regis steps. Valerie has, I fear, spent 
her days ensconced in her abode since the arrival of some sort of device 
from an overseas vendor.  She named it a rabbit, however it bore little 
resemblance to such and more to - well, I do not know how to put this in 
the delicate manner to which you have become accustomed.  But the poor 
girl seems utterly obsessed with the thing, and impervious to all such 
suggestions that such prolongued solitude may not be beneficial to one's 
well-being.

Well, I shall not keep you with a lengthy missive.  I do not know if 
this will reach you.  I believe for a short time my communications were 
mis-directed.  On this occasion, I have given the post-boy a shiney new 
sixpence and asked him to make haste and despatch his fastest horses and 
most virile messengers to -

Agile messengers.  Agile, not virile.  Anyway - you should get this, innit?

I do hope this finds you in good humour, that the unpleasant chill has 
now departed, and that the pretty boys and disco are not entirely 
distracting you from your novel.

With fondness

Ianjames.
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