It's that time of the month again. That time when all my bottled up frustration and suppressed annoyance coagulates and multiplies in my stomach until I can hold it in no more, and it finally, gloriously, spews forth like ectoplasm. Yep, it's time for:
Dear Farm Traffic Leader,
I just want you to know that I am on to you. I have a theory that I have been working on for some time now. It goes something like this: That every lumbering, foul smelling vehicle and its driver are in fact part of an evil masonic conspiracy intent on world domination, and that this malevolent network of tractors and the like is closely involved in monitoring my habits, routines, and movements and then communicating them to each other via Evil Farm Traffic Network radio, in the interests of ensuring that one of your kind is always directly in front of me going at about 3 miles per hour whenever I need to actually get anywhere within the next five hours. Why why why? I'm innocent can't you see? I'm simply an ordinary woman on a mission, who happens to be bloody late again.
Yours with a creeping sense of paranoia, Gappy.
Dear Nessa (she of the Gavin and Stacey fame),
There is, so I'm told, to be a general election soon. Have you considered putting yourself up for the job of Prime Minister? Because any woman who drives an articulated lorry with shooting flames down the side is sure to get my vote.
P.S. I think I may possibly be a little bit in love with you,
Dear Naked Boss,
Just when I think that you may have surpassed even yourself in terms of cretinous creepiness, you just have to go that extra mile and prove me wrong don't you? Your latest conceptual leap involving the logic that only a radical feminist could possibly object to your inappropriate comments and uninvited back rubs, and that I can't be one of those because my daughter owns a pink scooter, has left me feeling baffled to say the least. I mean jesus, I applied moisturiser this morning. Perhaps you now feel it wise that I seriously reconsider whether or not I should be entitled to vote?
You know, I would tell you to shove your job up your arse, but I suspect you'd only take it as a come on.
Dear Joke Book belonging to Middle Son,
Do you think there is any chance at all that you could find your way discreetly into the re-cycling bin? Because there's a limit to how much crap jokery any woman can take you know. If I have to spend one more afternoon being trailed by a six year old asking me repeatedly where astronaut cows go, and then laughing until he gags every time he manages to squeak out the punchline (the moooooon of course) I may just finally lose the will to live.
Q: What do you call a woman who's just about ready to shoot herself? A: Gappy.
Dear So and So Boat,
Why am I always just missing you? Is it that other more organised bloggers have their Dear So and So's ready and waiting in their drafts, so that when you are first spotted on the horizon, they can immediately rush to the shore and anchor their link before Kat has moved on entirely and published a new post? Or sailed a new ship? Do I have any bloody idea where I'm going with this metaphor? No, I don't. But in the meantime, it would seem that I have missed you once again.
Yours, forever destined to trail behind confusedly,
If you would like to have yourself a go at a Dear So and So (sooo much cheaper than therapy) then head on over to Kats 3 Bedroom Bungalow where you can get your widget and post your link.