Excerpt: Selfare

Dear Dolt,

I do hope that by the time you receive this letter you will be safely out of Sarah’s nauseatingly purple room (why must girls always go for pink or purple? What’s wrong with a good healthy brown, or green? They’d have ever so many more chaps after them if they simply got over this obsessive need for puce and lavender). If you haven’t, scream and I’ll rustle up Edwin and a few others and we’ll come and rescue you. And Geoff too, probably. Mind Sarah doesn’t get an idea into her head to get her claws into Geoff – did I say that in my last letter? Well, it’s worth repeating. The poor boy would be completely lost to ‘pohetry’ and ‘leet-erature’ and whatever else and we’d never recover him.

I conveyed your good wishes on to Edwin and he simply pushed that annoyingly long yellow hair (well, all that’s left of it) out of his eyes and scowled. I think university is a bad influence on him; we’ll have to make sure he gets over this sulk – oh. I must tell you about his latest attempt with Tabitha. Suffice to say the last time his eyes were on her ‘luminous beauty’ (good grief, the man spouts rubbish like a proverbial penny-dreadful), he was not being that attentive to his footwork, shall we say, and he unfortunately made contact – close, loving contact - with the ground. He then had to suffer the humiliation of Tabitha taping his regrettably broken nose into place (while I offered great moral support and encouragement with helpful suggestions such as ‘Put some tape over his mouth too’). My advice was not appreciated, nor, I fear, was Tabitha’s matronly manner.

Until next time,

Marcus.

P.S. My name is not Fred. Dolt.