Dear Dreary.
My son Eric has got it into his little head that he wants to join the ballet. I blame myself for leaving a Billy Idiot dvd on the coffee table. His father is-as usual with family matters-indifferent on the matter, que sera will be he says. But i do worry. He seems to be totally distracted from his daily routine and won't talk of anything else.
He spends hour after hour pirouetting in front of the landing mirror,so much so that his wooden leg has burnt a hole in the carpet,and it's costing me a fortune in tights and hair removal cream. I am pleased he has found an interest, but it is now playing on my mind that he has never brought a girl home,and the only thing he watches on tv is some programme about a dance studio. The chaps on there seem to be very athletic and flamboyant. I am concerned that Eric might not be made welcome in such company, with his beer belly and flat foot. We may also have trouble finding a ballet shoe big enough to cover his big shoe.
He would also be required to move to London, which is trauma enough for any middle-aged man. How he'd cope with his false arm is anybody's guess. He was spinning round the living room the other day when it flew off and shattered the fishtank, and poor old Jaws had to be given the kiss of life. None of this helped Eric's stammer one bit.
There is also the question of packaging. I don't want him to compare unfavourably with any of his new friends. What do they use down there? Is it tissue paper or could it be some type of fruit? Your advice would be very welcome. I just feel that this may not be for him.
Yours,
Mrs. April Showers,Rainham.



My dear Mrs Showers.
It's quite clear to me that little Eric is destined for the stage. Perhaps the ballet is a tad out of reach but I'm seeing a life in comedy.
He reminds me of my sisters lad, Ernie. He always dreamt of being a wrestler and was forever throwing himself around the bedroom in his underpants. He's six stone wet through and can barely reach the door handle and at twenty nine years old you do worry for his career prospects.
I could arrange for your Eric to come and stay with little Ern. They'd have to share a bed although Eric would have to leave his wooden leg next to the chamber pot for fear of giving Ernie splinters.
There's a few open mic nights around our end where they could hone their routines. Ernie's been learning a striptease recently involving a grapefruit and an electric toaster. Would Eric like to smoke his pipe?
Call me.
Dreary. x