Most HONORABLE Mayor Thrumblood,

I am writing as a GREATLY concerned citizen of our fair Villetown. One might say there could be no GREATER concerned body than I!

Lately, many a foul event has plagued our sleepy little hamlet: accursed Puffinry, upsetting run-ins with the YOUTH of neighboring Buffton, and now the savage killing of the young member of the Pidgewidge clan.

What plans have you and the council set forth to rectify these many signs that our little oasis in the modern world is being dragged down to the depths of probable ghetto? What assurances can you give me, landowner and upstanding citizen (who has voted for you in 46 of the past 47  electoral events*) that anything will be done to restore safety?

Pip & Tut to YOU, Sir!

Gatsby

* Gatsby was ill during election 47 with a most severe flair-up of THE GOUT, and therefore was unable to make it to the polling place.

This weekend I was enjoying a lovely spread (cheese, apple, and cilantro ragout spread atop a crusty loaf) at a local greenspace, when the most horrific and confusing scenario developed.

Firstly, a loud cacophony of rattling drums and electronic bleeps filled the air. Then, a piercing array of squealing and churlish laughter. Finally, a blast of exhaust sprayed about the dandelions and crabgrass. Most unpleasant!

Young Ladies?

When I stood up to survey the situation and locate the cause, I spied three young ladies – likely past their secondary exams, but not yet in university - carousing about in a bright pink auto! What crass and inexplicable behavior! Well, I confronted them most immediately, and you will NEVER believe what transpired:

GB: “I say, I say! You there!”

Rude Young Lady 1: “What’s up GRANDPA!”

GB: “Tut tut! Do take your auto elsewhere, this field is for picnicking and cloud-gazing ONLY!”

Rude Young Lady 2: “Hey, you can’t tell us what to do! We’re young, fun, and you’re a mean old son of a gun!”

GB: “Well I Never!”

Rude Young Lady 3: “Ieeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee!”

Then the foul “ladies” sped away, but not before leaving a series of AWFUL tire treads across my lovely lace spread, and upsetting my pitcher of ginger lemonade. I will NEVER get the soot off this once fabulous cloth. Woe, WOE!

I simply cannot express my outrage in words. Perhaps a letter to the local magistrate about the up-rise in youthful autoing in the park will avenge my ruined picnicking cloth? What to do, what to do?