Letter Dated 27th February 1927, Cairo

Dear Mama,

This morning, I received a letter from Bunty of all people. Bunty!! It came as something of a surprise, that he knew how to hold the pencil the right way up and slide it along the paper to make a discernible mark, let alone form letters into recognisable words that then miraculously fit them together to create sentences that one could understand. True the niceties were missing like those little words that make sentences flow such as 'Dear Jack' and 'from Bunty'. With the appalling spelling and his unique approach to grammar, the rest was largely guesswork on my part. But what can you expect from a man who elevates idiocy to an art form and has on numerous occasions been called a halfwit by people that don't know him and such a term described as overly generous by those who do him. To call Bunty a halfwit, would be to credit him with having any wit at all, which clearly he hasn't.

I know he is my cousin and your nephew and as such, you are bound by family and duty to have some affection for him but if Bunty starts to write to me for the first time in fifteen years, prattling on about his pet goat and a girl from the village who has the misfortune to catch his eye, and Aunty continues to send suspiciously unsolicited parcels, then something is clearly up. Aunty never does anything without you and Papa claims to know nothing, which is a sure fire indication that whatever it is must have pretty dire consequences for me. What's going on? What are you both cooking up?

Looking forward to a speedy and frank response.

Your loving and patiently tolerant son,

Jack.