My Dear Rowan,
We’re sure you’re excited about Christmas and Santa Clause coming to your intellectually barren hovel. We are concerned because some of our helpers have informed us that you have been slightly more than your usual nasty little twit this year. Poor boy, you just can’t help yourself, can you.
We all remember the time that dear little girl down the street was devastated by the news her father wouldn’t ever be coming home again. Her mother, grandmother and grandfather in their grief still were able to console her with the news that he was with Jesus thus in a far better place. Rowan, did you really have to yell, ‘Bollocks, your father got potted and piled into a tree. If there really is a Jesus he wouldn’t want a drooling old sot like your father.” We’re sure there may be some truth to what you said, but really.
Now Rowan, we know that no one likes to be made fun of especially when one has such a self-felt sense of infallibility, but you really need to try and get along with the other kids in your school. Writing their parents and listing their accumulated demerits and shortcomings may be an admirable effort on your part, but far short of allowing any effort to endear themselves to you on their’s.
Also, it is understandable that when another pupil gets noticed for their work and you know it’s poppycock that you might feel low. It is not understandable, though, in any sense of the word, when you publicly demand that the headmistress point out the intellectual failings of their argument as well as their professor’s gothic-like teaching ability and the entire rot underpinning the education system. Though your reasoning, as usual, is impeccable, your sense of time and place is not.
Rowan, you need to understand people and accept them, what ever failings you believe them to possess. Maybe being kind and understanding is too much, but please try.
In closing, a package arrived by post yesterday without a name and in plain brown wrapping. Quite quizzed, we opened it. What exactly does one want with an inflatable ass and a model stable with a red light and a winking sheep sign hanging overhead? We’re flummoxed. Any help there?
Must run. We know you won’t believe this, but it is snowing here and there are three men all dressed to the nines at the door. They’re probably hawking Winter Festival tickets or some such superstitious drivel. More probably they are very lost and seeking directions having hoped to hang their hats on a rising star only to have their hopes dashed. We mustn’t keep them waiting though goodness knows they’ll talk us into the hereafter and we’ll miss the winter benefits exchange.
Nose to the grindstone Rowan. Mustn't grow up a neer-do-well.
