Afterthought
Sir: John Wells makes me spit. You see, the story about the younger-son-of-a-well-known-politician has reached Southampton on its admittedly circuitous route to the Orkneys: but not the one about the Mars Bar. A MARS BAR! The mind boggles. Imagination flips its lid. Agonised curiosity racks every bone in the body .
Would Mr Wells exchange it for the one about our parish councillors—now probably setting Guildford by the ears en route for El Vino?
Seems the verger was just locking up after the meeting, you see, when suddenly he comes across this 41b. of MINCE . . . But no. No, I can't. Stuff like that is too precious to print.
You'll get it in due course, Mr Wells. Probably you'll hear it being told about the Lord Privy Seal. That's to protect the big names—the people who really know, down here where it all happens, in Southampton.
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