I, Sir Charles Grandiose, have deigned to bring both wit and wisdom (Hah!) (cleverly masquerading in the guise of advice to the lovelorn and senseless) to misbeguided heathens and the lower classes throughout the civilised world. Weekly one sits here in one's estate of Blandsdown, (a rotting draughty heap!) dictating to one's fleet of servants one's penetrating and canny insights (I have one word: HARDLY!) into the affairs of the hoi polloi. And what petty affairs they are. (I would be the last to talk!!!)

15 March, 1996

Dear Hoodwinked Fans of Sir Charles 'Pasty and Pretentious' Grandiose, Though I am a private citizen and unwilling to thrust myself into the limelight, as it were, unlike certain members of Fishampton society who think they're so high and mighty just because they've a minor title (baronet schmaronet, is my motto!) or managed to get their claws into a husband with a minor title the same way a certain person managed to get her hands around my neck (at a jumble sale, no less, a church jumble sale!!!!), I, Edna Thistle, Mrs., reluctantly assume duty as correspondent for the week. I may not be the arboretum of taste that a certain baronet might style himself, but I am a plain, honest citizen with plain, honest tastes, and that is enough for plain, honest folk! One glorious winter's morning last week, you see--I shall remember it forever--I awoke to the strident klaxon of a police siren disturbing the pictoralesque peace of our quiet countryside town. Immediately I felt a sense of impregnating doom. I leapt from my b-d and pulled on my cl-thes and peeked out the window with my opera glasses to find a number of the local constabulary accompanying no less than the finest cricketologists of Scotland Yard to the gates of Blandsdown! How excited I was! For you see, a fortnight or so ago the Lady Felicia--formerly my dearest, closest, and oldest friend (she really is such an old, old, old friend!)--had a tussle of sorts. Oh nothing serious. She says she merely got her cuffs caught in my chunky cloisonne necklace, but I know she was trying to squeeze the life from me! Well, I had telephoned the constable and insisted he toss that snooty no-better-than-she-ought-to-be sorry excuse for a baronet's wife behind bars into a women's penisectomy! And here was my grand opportunity for photographs! Unfortunately, it was merely that pasty snob Sir Charles being taken away in cuffs. Oh, it was exciting, but we'd all been predicting it for years and years. You can't be that depraved and get away with it forever. Of course, seeing my oldest, oh-so-old friend weeping as they carted the old sod away was a wrench to my heart, really it was. So naturally I comforted her as she wiped the tears from her (sadly wrinkled and leathery . . . but I'm not the sort to notice the faults of others, unlike some!) face with a (disgustingly dirty) handkerchief. "Oh Edna Thistle, Mrs!" she cried. "What a Good Somalian you are to me!" I blushed prettily and poo-poohed her effluviums. "My husband has been arrested for murdering no less than fifteen members of the royal family with poisoned fish fingers!" "Ghastly!" I exclaimed. I always knew they didn't eat all that fancy foreign pavender. I hugged the decrepit so-and-so, noticing how thick her waist was getting. Well well, if you eat all those toffees while your husband's out carousing, and the only exercise you get are the rides with Lord Frost of Locksley-Charmes (and I'm not talking about equinoxical exercise, no indeed!). . . . "You must be with your husband, my dear woman," I told her. "You and your daughter both!" Although we all know the girl's the natural daughter of a flighty socialite and a airline steward, we humour Lady Felicia into thinking she's really her daughter. Not right in her head, you know. Either of them. It's psycholitical. At any rate, I shooed them off with their tatty and pretentious steamer trunks, informed that abliminably dull-witted secretary of theirs that they'd begged me to make this venue mine own (which Felicia nearly did . . . I could see it in her pathetically blood-shot eyes), and expect to 'pull my burden' for as long as necessary. Hopefully a good long time. Say . . . thirty years to life. Always pleased to do my duty as a private citizen, Edna Thistle, Mrs. Crazed writes: Dear Sir Charles Edna Thistle, Mrs., My neighbours are terribly loud people. I thought I could put up with the din at first-the loud raucous music, the shouting, the stomping, even the occasional gunfire, but lately they've taken to locking each other out of the house and screaming at each other while they beat on the doors. Is there anything I can do, short of gunpowder under the porch? Sincerely, A Crazed Canuck Edna Thistle, Mrs., replies: Oh my, oh my, I know all about obstroperous neighbours! Many's the time I've been sitting in my fruit cellar, all alone, fiddling with my son's cellular frequency modulator interceptor whatnot, when I've accidentally picked up telephone conversations like this: Snooty Male Baronet: Oh, Chatsy, Chatsy . . . One burns for you. How one wishes one could be your pantaloons, so one could be all the closer to your mound of Venus . . . How one wishes one could be your foundation garments, so one could support your decolletage all the day 'round, save when you remove them for a gentleman friend who admires you as no other gentleman friend does . . . or for a bath. Or perhaps when you sleep. One does not care to inquire too closely into the habits of your garments. Vulgar Chippy: Oh Sir! You do go on! Or this: Antique Wife of a Baronet So Close to the Grave They Should Embalm Her Already: Oh, Lord F---- of L-------C------! Were one to taste of your sausages right this moment. . . . A Certain Lord Who's Obviously Nearsighted: Ah! Lady F-----! And were I to taste of your honey--! A.W.o.a.B.S.C.t.t.G.T.S.E.H.A.: What bliss! A.C.L.W.O.N.: What heav. . . . Cheese it, Lady Tiffany's home! Well, it puts me right off my gruel, it does. Sincerely, Edna Thistle, Mrs. An Admirer writes: Dear Edna Thistle, Mrs., How do you do it? You're ever so elegant. You're ever so beautiful for a woman of middle age. And you're ever so much more pleasant so spend time with than those prehensile neighbors of yours. An Admirer, Anon. Edna Thistle, Mrs., replies: Yes, it's certainly true that I do put up with a lot and still come out smelling like a rose. For example, Exhibit A: Would you want to live near this sort of chap? I didn't think so. And let's look at Exhibit B: It's a little-known secret, but 'Lady' Felicia, nee Windover-Midden, is of the Windover-Middens of Swillingsford. Yes, the daughter of the landfill magnate! It's funny, but while I was cleaning out 'Lady' Felicia's things (her maids don't give the concealed drawer to her writing desk a very good going over, I must say) I found her yearbook from that snooty finishing school (mental asylum?) she attended. Now, I'm not saying anything definite, mind you, but whose nickname was once 'Felicia Wind-Up'? Hmmmm? Yes, it's true, with neighbours such as these, I have a trying time. But I endure. I persevetrate. I endure the numerous snubs and the outrageous cheating in the Memoirs of the Raj Chutney Parade Prune Preserves competition. I ignore the blatant attempts at murder and the devious wiles of this wicked adventuress. And why? Why, you ask? Well, simply so I can revel in moments like these, when the family is in pain and scandal-seeking pepperizzi with their automatic cameras throng about. There's no balm sweeter than justice, dearies. Keep that in mind when some snobbish baronet doesn't invite you to some no-affair social in his Crusty Ballroom, and perhaps one day you, too, will be as happy as I am at this very moment! Looking forward to next week (you can't imagine how much!), Edna Thistle, Mrs.