A threnody from the Principality

Another letter from the indefatigable Mrs T.
Dear Mrs Scrote, she writes, you never cease to befuggle me. It's Friday and there's not a single grumble from you. With all that's going on in the world - climax change, bilious earthquakes, swine flue and that - I was expecting an outburst.
If you're anything like me, you would at least have a rant about varicose veins. My late husband, Mr Trellis, used to enjoy tracing his finger up the fat vein on my right calf. He reckoned it was like a map of the River Nile, and he said that one day he was going to trace it to its source. Of course he would then fall asleep, poor man, overcome by his nightly medicinal brandy.