The other day I mentioned to my big brother that I needed to lift our potato crop in the back garden. Today I received this reply.
(By way of explanation. He was born, almost 65 years ago, in Princess Mary’s Maternity Hospital and spent his first five years on Tyneside before our Dad’s and his own RAF career took him all over the place. He finally settled in the Land of our Fathers – but our Mother’s Geordie roots still show from time to time.)
Hence this email
Wot Ho Brenda,
Want your garden dug very thoroughly from end to end in double quick time and every mortal thing in it retrieved and cleaned (including yer spuds)?
Wait until Fester is going away for a few days on his tod. The morning after he goes nip down to a phone box, ring the Rozzers, tell them that you`re a concerned neighbour who hasn`t seen him recently, who heard a scream followed by a couple of bangs and who`s seen someone messin` aboot in your garding in the middle of the neet!
"Only ah divint want ter tell yiz me name coz shiz a big lass that yin, wi a gang o` big mates wot drinks pints an` dansiz aboot in greet narly boots an` hammers each other with sordz an things. An she naaz where ah live!"
Should do the trick!
Luv.
Bruv
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