Dear Mr Sarkozy, she writes, I can't tell you how much I admire your gift of tongues, but I suppose that sort of thing comes naturally to you, you being a foreigner to start with. I myself was bisexual from an early age, using Welsh at home and in chapel, and English for baser purposes. My late husband, Mr Trellis, was something of a polygon too, having learned various foreign songs from his dad. One I remember vividly was something about Inky Pinky Parlez Vous. I had no idea what the words meant, but each verse ended with a loud guffaw and a hard slap on my bum. He was such a happy man at those moments, bless him, not that he ever commensurated his passion, for reasons too indelicate to go into. I imagine your lingual abilities bring similar pleasures to your lady wife.
Enough from me. I know you are busy ruling France, which must be difficult. They seem to be such an unruly lot, forever ruining air travel and storming the bastille. Maybe if you spoke to them in Hungarian, it would distract their attention long enough for you to send in the riot police. Just a suggestion.
Yours accordingly, Mrs BlodwenTrellis, widow, unsullied.
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