Last night, after a late supper of Extra Mature Pilgrim’s Choice on toast, I dozed off in my recliner whilst watching Masterchef. The sound of the telly still on, no doubt mixed with the after-effects of the dairy snack, induced a rather alarming dream in which I was being chased down the High Street by a selection of side plates, cups and saucers. Luckily upon rousing I was not confronted by looming crockery. I was therefore very grateful that your intimation that sleep conjured imagery can materialise in our dimension turned out to be fellacious, no matter how much effort may be applied. In summary therefore no matter even if I do push hard my dreams will never be china in my hand, or for that matter, in hot pursuit.
I would therefore be grateful for your reaction to my relieved discovery in order that this may not remain a secret left untold.
P.S. Given that you were born in Huyton, Lancashire, my wife Jean wonders if your original plan was to be named T’Pau in that locaility and THE Pau in other Southern Territories or a foreign land.
Dear Derek Phillpott,
I recently found your letter. It had got lost in the substantial fan mail I still receive along with requests for my underwear and invitations to fans' wedding anniversaries.
It takes my grandmother, who is my personal assistant, a long time to wade through the fan mail, on account of her cataracts being so milky. Hence the delayed reply.
I have no idea why you would think this classic power ballad was about aggressive monstrous crockery when it is in fact about the other monster and literary giant namely, Frankenstein.
I also hope that you are in no way making any kind of ‘cheese’ connection with my profound lyrics and artistry.