You may recall that Last October I received a love letter, from a stranger, named Tony.

That was not the first time that that had happened. You see, I write for an Australian magazine, not a real magazine, just a pretend one. It has a print run of about 7000, and is sent to members of a certain organisation all around the world. Anyway, as a result of the inclusion of my tales from the road, I do get a fair bit of post, including quite a few propositions.

Today’s proposal was a little different from the usual, in that it wasn’t from a man. It was even more unusual in that the woman who penned the letter is, it must be said, rather attractive.

I give you, Miss. H.

What’s even more bizarre, is that although Miss. H’s letter has come from Ghana, she did her degree not 10 minutes walk from where I am now sitting.

My favourite section is the bit that reads,

“Are married or marrried before? Do you have a girl loves? I am single, I am only praying that I meet Mr Wright.”

I assume here she means Mr. Right, and not Steve Wright, the balding moustache-wielding BBC Radio 2 Disc-jockey.

“I must admit you are very handsome, so I saw your in the Australian magazine”.

…hmmm

Of course, as we all know, she is 5 months too late, as last September I was hunted down by *Cough* who flew all the way from Tokyo just to get her hands on me.

However, had *Cough* not come along, what would my response to Miss. H. have been? Well, initial phwarings out of the way I would have inspected the photos closely to see if they revealed anything more about her breasts personality.

Ah, yes, there we have it, 1st sign that we would not be compatible:

Yes, huge earings. We all know that you can never trust a woman with big dangly earings, as they usually contain radio transmitters that are linked to the CIA’s HQ. Clearly, a spy.

Looking a little closer at teh 1st photo above and … ah yes, tell-tale sign…

The nail extensions. Ooohh there’s nothing in this world that drives me into a frantic where-are-my-scissors frenzy more than ridiulously long nail extensions. Utterly impracticle. How the hell is she supposed to do the washing up after I’ve eaten with those great paddles glued to the ends of her fingers?

Don’t get me wrong, I’m sure Miss. H. is a lovely girl, just not quite my type.

I’ll pop her in my big black file, along with Tony and that chap in the Phillipines who tried to seduce me with the legendary line,

“On a personal level, I am certified male, endowment 6 cut bottom”.

tarra