Spiritual comfort from the Principality

A word of encouragement from Mrs Trellis:

Dear Holy Benedict, she writes, I don't blame you for packing it in, what with everybody going on at you, and no wife to rub your feet of an evening. Enjoy your retirement, I say, and don't worry about you being a Catholic and all, it's probably not your fault.
Your spirituously
Blodwen Trellis, Mrs, widow, retd, Primitive Methodist

Trellis talks medical

Dear Mrs Scrote, she writes, I understand you have gone foreign again, Do be careful, dear, it's like being in England only smellier and the men pinch your bum. Did I hear that you went to a doctor and he told you you have a low hemagoblin count? I hope you get a high one back soon.
My jee pee - a lovely man with soft hands and a prickly beard - told me I had a cute angina, but at my age a bit of flattery is welcome. Not sure how he knows, though, because I am always careful how I dress.
Yours
Blodwen Trellis, Mrs, Widow, retd

Trellis and the crisis

Mrs Trellis reacts to the latest moves in the deportation saga:
Dear Abu Qatada, she writes, you poor man, you must be tired of all this argy-bargy about whether to send you back to Jordan, when all you really want is a quiet life in Britain praying and preaching and blowing up people who disagree with you.
If you do get let off, you might think of finding another job . You could ask that oriental Untied Nations person, Mon-key Boon, for a job helping him to paficy Syria. You'd have lots of chance to kill people there, and no Teresa May breathing down your djellaba telling you what a naughty naughty boy you are.
By the way, have you ever thought about shaving your beard off? It might make you more acceptable, though with your horrible eyes you are probably just as ugly underneath if I'm any judge.
Shalom, as you people say.
Blodwen Trellis, Mrs, widow, retd, non-political

Trellis's burden

A somewhat plaintive note from my indefatigable North Wales correspondent:

Dear Emily, she writes, I don't know your first name, but you seem like an Emily to me, ageing and running to fat and gabby with it. A bit like myself really. Tomorrow, think about me, I'm going for my yearly dilatation and curettage. Do you suffer from excessive earwax too? "It must be a burden", I hear you say. Well, I will be able to hear you say that after they've scraped me out tomorrow.
Yours medically
Blodwen Trellis, Mrs, widow, retd, up for it.

Mrs Trellis reveals all

I was beginning to wonder what had happened to the good lady.

Dear Mrs Scrote, she writes, sorry I haven't written sooner, but I have been away, dear. Not a holiday, no, I had a spell in hospital. Lady's things, you know. Nice enough doctors and that, but, honest, they way they put you in the stirrups and then walk out leaving the door open, and a boy you knew from school walks by, looks in, waves and says "Oh hello, I thought it was you!" Though how he recognised me without my glasses is a mystery.
Yours
Blodwen Trellis, Mrs, widow, retd, mended

Trellis is surprised

I publish this latest missive from the good lady of North Wales without comment.
Dear Mrs Samovar, she writes, a little bird told me that A CERTAIN PERSON came to stay with you last week. All I can say, dear, is that you are a braver woman than I am. That CERTAIN PERSON is notorious for eating everything in sight, drinking endless cups of tea and forever walking about for no apparent reason. I hope at least that he was kind to your dogs, and maybe even spent time stroking your pussy (He doesn't get on well with cats as a rule).
Anyway,  look after yourself, dear, and know that I admire your kindness to dumb animals, including  to the CERTAIN PERSON referred to above.
Yours in sisterly solidarity
Blodwen Trellis, Widow, retd, no serious offer refused

Mrs Trellis doesn't pull her punches

Dear Mr Sarkastic, she writes, you don't seem to like the British Prime Minister, David Cameroon, very much. I don't like him either, him being English and a Tory and all, but I tell you, there's one good thing about him: he really knows how to make you angry.
And where I come from, we say that if the French are annoyed with us, we must be doing something right.
Have a nice Christmas, and do try to smile properly, not that crooked grimace that makes you look as if you'd got the Eiffel Tower stuck up your fundament.
Yours etc
Blodwen Trellis, Mrs, Widow, retd

Mrs T goes geopolitical

I'm not sure where the good lady finds her information, but she's clearly concerned about the future of North Korea: She writes:
To Kim Jong-il, c/o North Korea
Dear Sir
I read in the paper that you are thinking of retiring from your job as Divine Leader and handing over the post to your son, Un. I have nothing against the boy, though he does look very gormless - a family tray, I assume - but I wonder if you are doing the right thing. I only say this because our village butcher, Dai the Big Chopper, appointed his son Dai the Little Chopper to run the business, and the very next day the poor lad burnt the shop to the ground while trying to set up a celebration firework display in the cooked meats section. It's the sort of thing Un could do if I'm any judge of character.
I wonder whether your eldest son, Nam, might not be a safer choice. I know he's a bit of a villain, but he's the only one in your family that doesn't look as if he's only just learned to walk upright.
Yours respectfully
Blodwen Trellis, Mrs, Widow, retd.

Trellis jumps in

As ever, the dear lady from North Wales grasps the nettle by the wrong end:
 Dear Mr Tolstoy, she writes, your Mrs Grice reminds me a lot of Annie Karinena. Was she the inspiration for your famous opera? Did she throw herself under a train at the finish like your heroin? I am not a literatious person, but I do like a good read with a bloody ending.
Yours graciously
Blodwen Trellis, Mrs, widow, retd

A distress call from Mrs Trellis

She writes:
 My cat's gone again. Well, when I say "my" cat, it was in fact my late husband Mr Trellis's pet. I've put out food for it and some dead mice I found in the bottom of the wardrobe, but the contrary little minx has not reappeared. I fear that standing in the yard calling her name doesn't work either. After all, would you come running up joyfully if someone screamed "Anghenfil Ychydig" at you? That name was my husband's idea, he said it was revenge on the English for giving their cats names like Boddington.
Anyway, enough about my pussy problems. I am going on a charabanc trip to Pwllheli tomorrow, shopping, cream tea and maybe a paddle in the sea if I can get my tights off without loss of dignity.
That ought to take my mind off anghenfil ychydig.

Mrs T is disgusted

 Always one to grasp the nettle, Mrs Trellis takes a stand on morality:


Dear Signor Berlusconi, she writes, I am not surprised someone tried to stick a cathedral in your head, the way you act the old goat when it comes to young women. At your age, you should be growing geraniums and playing bowls, not chasing every skirt that comes along. My husband, the late Mr Trellis, had an eye for the fair sex too, but I kept him on a very tight leash.
Doesn't your wife mind about your philatelic tendencies? If I were her, I'd put a dog collar round your neck and literally keep you on a leash. But knowing you, you'd probably enjoy that, you prevert.
Yours disgusted
Blodwen Trellis, Mrs, widow retd, strict Wesleyan.

Mrs Trellis gets the point

Dear Ban Ki Moon, she writes, I had NO idea you were Jewish! For a start you don't look jewish, although with peyes and tefillin, you could pass for an oriental hebrew on a dark night
Thank you for the New Year greetings, I shall pass them on to my friend Gwenddydd Goldfarb, as she is part jewish, not sure which part, though. Possibly her bum.
By the way, do your lot sing "Oyld Lang Zeyn" like we do?
Yours kosherly
Blodwen Trellis, Mrs, Widow, retd, Primitive Methodist.

Trellis gets romantic

Dear Mrs Scrote, she writes, for once I am happy for you, I do hope you and Mr Norman can "get it up together", as the late Mr Trellis used to say (He was always careless with prepositions). There's nothing wrong with late-flowering lust, imho. Even I am not immune. I dreamt the other night that I was being groped in the ashram by Mohandas K Gandhi, and I thoroughly enjoyed the experience. It was spoiled a bit by me laughing at his bandy gandhi legs, but you can't have everything, can you?
By the way, are you ever irritated by people who have two Christian names, eg Robert Norman, or people who have two surnames, eg Somerset Maugham? I think there ought to be a govt dept to re-assign them, eg, Norman Maugham and Robert Somerset. I appreciate this has got nothing to do with love.
Yours romantically
Blodwen Trellis, Mrs, Widow, retd, open to offers.

Trellis on gates

Mrs T, observant and trenchant as ever. She writes:
 Dear Angela, or may I call you Mrs Merkel?, reading about you and your gate, my mind went blank.
I mean, your lot were SO good at building walls to keep people out ( or was it "in"?), I am astoundished you couldn't cope with one measly little gate. To be charitable, I have to say it doesn't look too bad if you scraunch your eyes up. And at least it doesn't have an arch over the top with "Arbeit macht frei" written on it.
Yours
Blodwen Trellis, Mrs, Widow, retd, still spitting

Mrs T's been watching the news

Dear Mrs Gaddafi, she writes, my goodness, what a mess you are in! I told you before that it would all end in tears if you didn't do something about that wayward hubby of yours. You mark my words, dear, you need to take a firm grip on a man or he'll just run amuck the first chance he gets. Let's face it, your Muammar (what kind of name is THAT?) isn't going to take a grip on himself, even if he did it a lot when he was a teenager and didn't know better.
I suppose you're all holed up in the desert now, getting sand in everything. You poor woman - get a hold of him and tell him to make a run for it, before he gets grabbed by the berbers. I believe Caracas is nice at this time of year, and no sand to speak of.
Yours truly, etc
Blodwen Trellis, Mrs, Widow, retd.

Trellis offers her best wishes

The Welsh widow sends her greetings to an old friend.

Dear Mrs Samarkand, she writes, I understand you are having dinner this coming Thursday evening with Mrs Angit. I used to like a girls' night out myself with my friend Gwynneth Pritchard, you know, the one with the squint and the warts. But since that time her hubby sprayed her with dieldrin, she has  gone all withdrawn into herself, as the saying goes.
Anyway, you and Mrs A, have a good time, and don't do anything I wouldn't do . And if the evening isn't going too sparkly, try pinching the waiters' bums. It always brought tears to my eyes whenever Gwynneth did that, specially as her aim wasn't very good.
Yours sisterlily
Blodwen Trellis, Mrs, widow, retd, unabashed.

Mrs Trellis has a query.

Dear Mrs Scrote, she writes, I am intrigated by your use of the word "munchkins" to describe your grandchildren. Is it a term of endearment, or are they really tiny and fictitious? My husband, the late Mr Trellis, had various names for me, not all of which I understood, so I used to watch his face for signs of satire. In the Spring, he sometimes called me his "little pussy willow". At such moments, I noticed that his face was flushed and his breathing a little tight, but I put that down to overindulgence in the dandelion and baldock. In the autumn, I became his "little shiny conker", a name which I thought would have suited him better. Anyway, I didn't much like that name, though it was better than being his "little red haw", which I took to be an unflattering reference to my private area.
I've often wondered if Scrote is your real name, or something you were given by a hostile agent. 
Blodwen Trellis, Mrs, Widow, retd.
.

Mrs T catches up with the news

More pithy comment on world affairs from my North Walian correspondent.

Dear Mrs Assad, she writes, isn't it awful when people start disliking you, though in your case I expect people have disliked you for years, you being a  Babylonian and all. I suggest you give all your shoes to charity, sell off the family silver and carpets, and do a runner to somewhere anomalous like Golders Green, but I advise you not to take any enslaved Hebrews with you.
Yours etc
Blodwen Trellis, Mrs, Widow, retd, unshaven

FERNAND ET FÉLICITÉ...

La scène se passe en la maison de retraite 'Les Cheveux Blancs'.
Fernand, 91 ans, voit avec bonheur arriver une nouvelle, Félicité, une jeunette de 85 ans.
 
Rapidement, comme deux aimants, leur attirance mutuelle les fait s'asseoir côte à côte au réfectoire, devant la TV, pendant les jeux et Fernand tient Félicité par les épaules pendant les farandoles.

Arrive ce qui devait arriver: Les deux amoureux, un beau soir, partagent
le même lit, chambre 320…
Je vous laisse imaginer cette première nuit d'amour…

Le lendemain matin, Fernand, au réveil :
"Félicité, ma chère, je vous dois des excuses; Si j'avais su que vous étiez toujours vierge, j'y serais allé plus doucement .."

"Mais non, mon bon Fernand, c'est moi qui vous présente mes excuses:
Si j'avais su que vous pouviez encore, j'aurais retiré mes collants…"

There's hope for us yet.

Geburtstaggeschenk?

This from the Frankfurter Allgemeine Zeitung.
Sprossen wohl Ursache der Ehec-Epidemie
F.A.Z. FRANKFURT, 5. Juni. Sprossengemüse aus Niedersachsen ist offenbar die Ursache für den schweren Ehec-Ausbruch in Deutschland. Die Ware stammt aus einem inzwischen geschlossenen Betrieb in Bienenbüttel im Kreis Uelzen, wie das niedersächsische Landwirtschaftsministerium am Sonntag mitteilte.
Note the dateline. What a way to remember my seventy-fifth birthday!