Dear Reader Who Writes,
It is one, Moonbeam Farquhar Metheringham IV, breathlessly excited and a teensy bit fearful. One pens this missive to one’s faithful followers from the departure lounge at London Heathrow. One sits in the relative safety of the business class lounge, managing to avoid the eyes of the various suited, booted and frightening ones around one, as one metaphorically sucks one’s pen in an effort to order one’s thoughts and compose a missive suitable to emanate from the ballpoint of a genius such as oneself.
And why, do I hear you gasp, is your beloved pedagogue leaving England’s verdant pastures just as spring is donning her robes of tender green? You may well wonder. And you must be assured that this dereliction of duty is none of my own doing.
Those of you who have retentive grey cells will recall that it was one’s pater’s avowed intention to desist one’s paltry allowance forthwith. However, it would seem to be beyond the capabilities of even that scrawny unfeeling reprobate and the creature who is soon to become Madam Metheringham VII. Something about trust funds and tontines and other such things of which one wots not… One is experiencing extreme difficulty in not wrinkling one’s brow in that manner which is both unbecoming and wrinkle-inducing. But what is, in vulgar parlance, described as the bottom line, would seem to suggest that one may not be cast off without a shilling, and that one’s signature is necessary on a raft of documentation to both ease one’s parent out of a little local pecuniary difficulty and to provide one with a guaranteed income no matter how many round-heeled harlots the lizard-skinned oaf espouses.
All of which means one is summoned to a meeting at the offices of Messrs Schuster, Schuster, Abramowitz, and Flugelhorn in San Francisco. Which is why one is seated amidst this faux leather splendour sipping creme de menthe and penning a missive to my estudas.
But hark. One’s flight is called. A bientot.