Ah, the crisp air, the blue skies, the flowers and the trees....the birds and the bees. Why do I feel like skipping? Is it the onset of the Labour party conference? Or the imminent mauling of an underage Arsenal XI at the Amsterdam Arena? Or is it something ineffable that makes my heart skip so and my undercarriage bulge like there's a demented badger down there trying to get out? Well, the answer is simple. Two syllables, no more. What else can I say?
Dita
Ahhhhhhh. Dita......
I think it's love.
Dita, call me if you feel the same way too. I can help you unpick some of those awkward, old style fasteners. I'm an expert. It's these small fingers. I used to be a child locksmith before the drink and drugs and hard core yodelling led me to a life of degenerate journalism. I was good, too. They used to call me Lightning Fingered Bob. You wanna see me peel a hard boiled egg - blink and you'll miss it. Need I say any more? OK, I'm hung like a horse if that helps.
OK, Call me - these callouses are getting too much. And thy're affwerecting m,y typinghh twoooh...
Love pouring out on ya,
Bob
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