The Lost Art of Letter Writing

Dear Show,

Consider yourself my bitch.

I own you. I own your children. I own your children’s children. You will carry my books to school. You will do my homework. You will give me your lunch money. You will clean my house. I never have to do my taxes again because you will do them for me. When I require a deep tissue massage, a foot rub or to have my belly gently stroked, you will massage, rub and stroke where and when necessary. You are not permitted to snigger at the rudeness of that last sentence because I own you and do not wish you to snigger. When I say jump, you will not ask how high but immediately begin random jumping. You will convince JK Rowling to write three more Harry Potter books that feature lots more of the Weasley family. You will find out who killed JFK and Marilyn Monroe but tell only me. You will definitively prove or disprove the theory of evolution. You will properly explain the appeal of Nicole Kidman films. Each day you will make me a toasted ham, cheese and tomato sandwich, cut it in quarters, take off the crusts and put them on the side. You will let Andrew G date me. You will arrange it so the next election is won by Labour. You will scatter rose petals where I walk. And if I so will it, you will TAKE ME UPON YOUR BACK AND LET ME RIDE YOU AROUND TOWN AS I WEAR A TIARA AND THE LEGGINGS OF MY CHOOSING.

I. Own. You.

Kisses,
The Gauc
xx

PS – My new best friend TallulahBelle who gave me the suggestion four weeks ago to get on top of the piano, will recap the rest of Idol tomorrow. She’s just still too too giddy over the whole piano climbing thing and the Little Miss Tarasai smackdown to be truly coherent. But she mumbled something about Tarasai to go tonight through the huge smile on her face . . .