Mrs Trellis has her finger to the grindstone, as usual.
Dear Mr Bush, she writes, I never thought I could admire a man who is named after a lady's private parts, but you have really impressed me lately, specially the way you have tried to engineer kiss-and-make-up between What's-his-name the Palestinian and What's-his-name, the Israeli, and specially because you must know your efforts are doomed to failure.
These people, believe me, are only happy when they are killing each other, so what you ought to do - forgive a poor little Welsh woman for giving advice to a man of your staturation - is arrange a duel, and whichever blows the other's brains out gets to rule the whole region.
After all, it's mainly about what kind of hat you wear when you speak to God, something which has never been a problem for us Primitive Methodists, though I have to say that Bronwen Parry's Sunday bonnets were an affront, not that I wanted to kill her for that.
By the way, if you and Laura ever visit North Wales, do call in and I will cauterise a couple of beef burgers, Texan style, just for you.
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