Dear Reader
It's half term and I have thankfully swapped the hubub of London for the ethnic delights of Morocco with my 4 demanding children (Herbert, Mathilda, Giselle and Siren), husband Nicholas and Magda, the lovely 19 year old Polish aupair.
Everything was going swimmingly well until we arrived last night in Marrakech to be greated by the world's most horrendous kerfuffle from the balcony of our
exclusive riad:
3 comments:
one 'e' in free,
you should know that.
Dear Headmistress,
We have solved most of our traffic congestion problems, here at Homeward, buy the use of switchback railways running from tower to tower. I heartily recommend this solution.
As a connoisseur of romantic poetry, and a follower of fashion, I thought you would enjoy this ode by Muncle, whose great love is shoes.
THE FOOT-LOVER or A Well-Spent Day
When in the morn he waketh
His shoes are all his care;
He heedeth not his jacket
on them he doth stare
Down the deep stairs he falleth;
For pain he does not care,
For on his back he landeth,
His shoes are in the air!
He hath a pleasant breakfast,
His well-brushed shoes are there;
His bacon tastes like nectar
As on them he doth stare.
At last he starts for business,
His eyes are on his feet,
Then the wrong bus he catcheth,
And reacheth the wrong street.
Yours Faithfully
Uncle
hope Moroccan traffic makes better TV than Marlow's
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