Ministry of Social Affairs
Buckingham Palace
London
30 May, 1999

Dear Sir Charles Grandiose,

Although it is with great pleasure that I pocket your generous donation for the 'Charity Begins At Home, Eh?' fund (clever, that), I regret to inform you that there are still no invitations available for the upcoming nuptials of Prince Edward and his lovely bride.

With many regrets,
Rupert Wellington-Forbes,
Social Secretary, Ministry of Social Affairs

Ministry of Social Affairs
Buckingham Palace
London
5 June, 1999

Dear Sir Charles Grandiose,

It may be true indeed that you are a baronet and know many people in high places, and it may indeed be true that Prince Edward and your nephew Chauncey Grandiose 'trod the boards' together in the all-male revue Fifty Dames and a Doll. It may be a fact that your readers are so numerous that were each a seed pearl on the Princess' gown the train would run from London to John O' Groats and have to be carried by over thirty-five thousand pageboys. It may even be a fact that you have paid your taxes to Inland Revenue (though I doubt this last point). Nevertheless the Prince's wedding is a private affair to which you are not invited. Yes, just like "Camilla Parking-Cars" (as you refer to her). Terribly sorry.

With many regrets,
Rupert Wellington-Forbes,
Social Secretary, Ministry of Social Affairs

Ministry of Social Affairs
Buckingham Palace
London
9 June, 1999

Dear Sir Charles Grandiose,

I rather regret your aspersions upon my character, my bloodlines, and my sexual proclivities. Assiduous in my job I may be, sir, but an Oedipus in my relationship with my mother I am not.

In times of yore, desperate men desiring to curry favour presented their Queens with treasures so rare, so prized, so truly unique and sought-after that all the world and even a monarch would hold them dear and clamour to have them. Unless you have something of this magnitude up your sleeve, I'm afraid you won't be attending the Royal Wedding. (And I'm afraid that Golden Fleece is rather out of fashion.)

With many regrets that you are a baronet,
Rupert Wellington-Forbes,
Social Secretary, Ministry of Social Affairs

Ministry of Social Affairs
Buckingham Palace
15 June, 1999

Dear Sir Charles Grandiose,

Enclosed is an invitation to the Royal Wedding. Her Majesty sends her gracious thanks, and wishes to know how in the world you ever managed to obtain a pass to the wedding of Posh Spice.

With sudden respect,
Rupert Wellington-Forbes,
Social Secretary, Ministry of Social Affairs

James writes:

Dear Sir Charles,

Here in Upper Friendland, USA, we are in a bit of a quandary as to our social class status. 

We hear that economically we are all aristocrats, enjoying, even the poorest among us, a higher standard of living than most of the world's population.  But we, alas, feel empty, for we have no peasants here to persecute. 

Can you, dear sir, Sir, please advise us as to in what highbrow antics we may engage in order to flex our aristocratic muscles, within the confines of legal stipulation of course,  while still remaining just plan old down-home ugly Americans?  One would appreciate your indulgence greatly, old boy.  Ta in advance.

James in Upper Friendland

P.S.  Would it be completely impracticable and impossible to revoke our president's degrees from over your way?  He seems to have no use for them whatsoever.

Sir Charles replies:

James, my boy,

It well may be that you have no peasants who will volunteer for your daily target practice. But fear not. One feels that with a bit of application and thought, even you will find ways in which to bring misery to the lower classes.

Each of your 'strip' malls and 'Galleria' malls contains dozens of low-paid labourers whose metaphoric duty it is to bend over and accept a thrashing while reciting the mantra, "The customer is always right." Why not test their simple faith in this credo? Treat the department store as you would your own dressing room. Discard garments onto the floor. Take as long as you care to decide your wardrobe for the day. Have the clerks carry about your planned purchases for hours at a time. Then, at the counter, announce that you have forgotten your charge card and walk away.

Likewise, the so-called 'fast food joint' may prove a ripe spot to exercise your aristocratic whims. Order yourself something in the 'drive-through' whilst in your Beemer. Then hold up the line indefinitely as you examine your Mad Cow Disease Meat Patty and ask if it was prepared according to Cordon Bleu standards.

Believe one, no matter how many dirty looks they give you, the retail and food service secretly crave a treatment bespeaking of high-handedness, imperiousness, and downright incivility.

Wishing the correspondent hours of jolly fun, one remains,
Sir Charles Grandiose

Buddy writes:

Dear Sir Charles,

With great interest I read your dictation of supreme insight, dated March the 22nd. In responding to 'Worried', you postulate that the upcoming hysteria (from the Greek word for woman, as you so well know. They are prone to mad ravings, after all, are they not?) concerning the new millennium could "be because religious extremists have convinced him that the world is ending merely because the year has three round zeros in it".

Sir Charles, as usual, you have hit the nail on the head, or close to it, at least. For, my grizzled sage, the truth is, as I have discover by coincidence, is that heretical apocryphal sects are not to blame, but the Odd Fellows! Yes, the Independent Order of Odd Fellows and NOT those black balling  Masons as it has been long believed. Your words "three round zeros in it" are prophetical, Sir Charles! Take care to examine their logo. Do they suppose us to believe that their three "links" are NOT really three zeroes? Balderdash!

Sincerely,
Buddy Franklin
Lodge 1530
BPO Elks
Coburn Gore, Maine

Sir Charles replies:

Dear 'Buddy,'

There are those who sail through life clear-headed and insightful, astounding others with the accuracy and cogency of their observations. Even as young children they overawe their elders with their unerring rationalism and flawless logic. As adults they rise like cream to the top of the intellectual jug, leading the masses with their profound insights. Yes, there are those who are destined, my boy, to greatness, sheerly through the overwhelming verity of their thought processes.

And then on the other hand, Buddy Franklin, there's you. Terrible shame, isn't it?

Wiping one's hands, one remains,
Sir Charles Grandiose

Bea  writes:

Dear Sir Charles:

During a recent tour through the pleasant, though highly unremarkable countryside in honor of which I am sure "Blandsdown" is named, I suddenly had a craving, an itch, you might say, for a cucumber.

A remarkable vegetable, the cuke.  It seems there are times when nothing else will do. I have enjoyed many in my travels.  Long, curved, firm Persian ones, and stout, straight, juicy American ones, and occasionally, even those stubby little English ones that always cause one to recall what one has nibbled for days afterwards in a most indelicate way.

I doubt you have given cucumbers much thought, and I would not trouble you with such trivial things, but I feel I must mention this for the good of all cucumber aficionados who live in your shire.  I was, as I mentioned, in most dire need of a cucumber of ANY sort, and found myself within sight of the disconcertingly Dickenesque chimneys of your palatial abode. "Surely," I thought, "in this part of the isle, where the only apparent livelihood appears to be derived from filthy farms reeking of decomposing bovine waste, cukes of all sorts must abound.  However, upon inquiring at various quaint establishments one hesitates to call "greengrocers", I discovered that they all were, to put it in the local vernacular, "right out" of every object of my affection. It seems that one Lady Felicia had caused a number of persons to pounce upon and purchase every cucumber within ten miles.

Now I ask you: is it good form for those of your lofty station to deprive us, who are not as fortunate, of our simple pleasures? Can you not spare a few scabby specimens, knowing that The Lady Felicia is not the only one who enjoys a plump cucumis?

Imploring respectfully, I remain,
Bea Reftov de Lyte

Sir Charles replies:

Dear Miss de Lyte,

Isn't it a bloody conundrum? One's nephew, Chauncey, is always complaining about how hard it is to find a good gherkin in one's part of the countryside, and despite the simply immense greengrocer's bill we have, the Lady Felicia never uses any of her scores of cucumbers for pickling.

Damned if I know what she does with the bloody things. They never appear on the table.

Puzzled as all get out, one remains,
Sir Charles Grandiose