Dear Lib Dems

Dear Lib Dems,

The appeal of a handwritten letter is in its individuality. If you photocopy the letter (even in colour) and send it out to everyone in the constituency, we can tell. It looks awfully like you are trying to con us into voting for you. We are not fooled.

What is more, schoolboy style handwriting in blue ink on blue paper makes your candidate look like a schoolboy. A Tory schoolboy. He looked young in his photo, but this is ridiculous.

I've put it in the recycling bin. I hope it has a happy reincarnation as a Vote Green poster.

Regards,

Thousands-of-voters in Norwich South.




Dear Lib Dems,

So you think the Greens are out of the race? It's a "two-horse race"? When you are walking up and down the streets of Norwich to deliver your newspaper-style campaign leaflets that declare this in bold print on their Daily Mail style front page, do you notice that you are walking past Green poster after Green poster after Green poster? Do you realise that you haven't passed a single Orange diamond shape?

Next time don't tell us lies, tell us what you are going to do that's good if we elect you. At least then we would bother to read your next leaflet before throwing it in the recycling.

Regards,
Thousands-of-voters


Dear Labour,

Your leaflet is headed "What we will do for Edinburgh Road". I read your leaflet and it didn't mention Edinburgh Road. Will your government be the same? I don't really want a government that announces one thing and does something else.

So thanks but no thanks.

Yours,
Thousands-of-Voters

A little bit of nonsense

(to be continued at some point…)

A bat and a shrew went to sea in a shoe;
They arrived in a land full of palm trees and sand,
And were met by a hog, whose illustrious bog
Was their home for a week full of bubble and squeak.

Now these two little friends found it hard to pretend
That they’d come all the way from the bay of Biscay,
But onwards they went with their miniature tent,
Which they pitched on a beach with a flowering peach.

Golden Crane

Here stands the house of the Golden Crane,
Where the Ancient One sang his last silvery song.
Til now, no crane has returned again
While year upon year the clouds drift on.

The sun is setting above the trees
As clear Yang-tse waters lap the shore
Of the golden-green island, a haven of peace.
But the mists of sadness will lift no more.

("translated" -by me - from a Chinese poem by Ts'ui Hao)