Paint

I was out for a coffee this morning with my two friends Dawn and Dolly. We call ourselves the alliterative ladies of leisure. Dawn was telling me about her Roger. He's become obsessed with painting. Not your nice canvases to hang on the wall but various bits of the house. Dawn caught him in the garden the other day painting the trunk of the flowering cherry. He said he thought it was looking a bit drab against the fence he'd just touched up. Why do men get so obsessive about things? Speaking of which, Jeremy our postie popped around yesterday with his usual bunch of letters and junk mail (I think he saves them up so he can pop in for a cuppa and to wink at me). One of the letters caught my attention as I vaguely recognised the hand writing even though it was supposed to be from a friend of Gordon (who is a friend of Richard my photographer friend) when it actually looked like Gordon's writing:

Dear Doreen,
I'm at my wits' end. I got a hang glider off the internet. She's great to look at and goes like a train gliding in prone, but is an absolute bitch to handle. Is she just a dog, or could I improve my skills with coaching? Should I get a boring old glider out of the shed instead? I've even thought of paragliding, although I hear it can make your bum sore.
I need your advice, Boyce Shitespeed


Dear 'Boyce'
 Tell your friend Gordon that he shouldn't put you up to such tricks. Thinking about paragliding makes many a hang glider flier's bum sore. I think it has something to do with devil worship and lack of bowel control.

I hope this helps, Doreen