Hello, Oakley! I trust you are enjoying the fine Spring weather as much as we are here in Twillingsgate? Various gossipping tongues have been trying to embarrass me (and you) lately by spreading fanciful stories, but I pay them little mind. Regardless of that, I hope to make another trip to Hull shortly and hear you play the fiddle again...always a real delight!

Winston has joined a shooting club and is attempting to pass himself off as a ruthless and dangerous man, making idle remarks about "potting wogs" and so on. He really is a dreadful braggart, but I've seen worse. It's a flaw among the overly rich and idle, I'm afraid.

The pervert "poet", Malcolm Buggeroll, still has half the women in this town swooning over his dreadful doggerel. I could fix his wicket permanently by letting slip certain revelations, but I'd rather let the cad hang himself on his own rope, as I expect he will shortly. His audacity knows no bounds. I believe he would make advances to a Barbary Ape if he could find one around here.

This town has its share of odd characters, I can tell you. But that's England, isn't it? We value our eccentricities here.

* Penelope