I say, Freddy, I don't think she's twigged that we're wigged! what say you and I, Fotheringham, go another round of rummy while she's out to it. Nigel's trotted off to the Post Office, or that's what Pomfrits thinks. Little does she know that the letter has already reached its destination.

He said it was just for a lark, Fredders, but, you know, I think the old boy really wanted to know one way or the other how she felt. Maybe all those nights under the stars, listening to bombs going off finally got to him. You'd think she would have seen through the fake tan, wig and false mustache, but she just keeps sobbing into her hanky. Personally, I think he makes a better Captain than a Dago. and that garlic flavoured olive oil over his arms,that was a little uncalled for....

whose deal?