Correspondence

Thursday 9 Noctober

Dear Mrs Fint (a letter might begin)

I am writing to inform you of a terrible miscarriage of justice. If justice is blind, perhaps the miscarriage was a blessing (eugenically speaking). But I'm getting ahead of myself.

(the letter might continue)

On the evening of January the Wth, at approximately sixteen pee emm, a basket containing firewood was deposited at your door. Precisely fourteenish minutes later, you found said basket, took said wood into your house, and would use said wood on your unsaid fire (or so it has been said - by me).

The wood you so selfishly consumed was, in fact, intended for my door. I was hoping to use the firewood to build some kind of gnarled character, who would move jerkily like a puppet, perform basic household tasks, and scare the children of the neighbourhood.

Unfortunately, that is no longer possible, as the wood has been right burned up.

As am I.

I hope you will admit the error on your part (on your porch), and will reimburse me the sum of: SOME FIREWOOD, first class post-haste.

Yours pricklelily

Anton Baker (from next door)

***

Thursday 15 April

Dear Mr Baker

(the reply might begin)

I must say I was surprised to receive you letter dated Noctober 9, as that is not a real month.

Furthermore, I am unaware of the firewood of which you speak. I have no fire, no doorstep, and do not live anywhere near you. In fact, I found the whole thing thoroughly confusing.

(this letter might be spattered with red liquid, but who can say?)

I would consider any attempt to animate a wooden creature, be it goblin or chunky "Wicker Man", an affront to nature. I must warn against playing God. My father once tried to breed horseshoes, and got flattened by a runaway tram.

I consider this matter to be resolved.

Yours tasered

Polystyrene Fint

***

Then Baker would send flowers, and they'd be married.

(The late Mr Fint would approve from Heaven)

***

I ran out of steam there. But you get the picture.