Dear Sir Julius Puddington,
Due to a debilitating terminal illness, my doctor has recommended that I put all my chickens to rest, so to speak. As I am sure your elation must be overwhelming for holding a minuscule spot in my vast memory, I do hope no cardiac infarction should come to pass.
To get to the point, I wanted to bring up the day that I had been so famished I stepped into your bakery for one of those fanciful pastries. You know of which one as it is the only one that does not leave the taste of sundried chalk on your tongue.
You see, I did not realise upon entering, that the voluptuous woman standing at the counter was your daughter. Had I known, I would never have complimented her on her “exquisite buns” in your presence. I apologise for my poor timing, and for not waiting to see her face first. I still shiver over the memory of that face of a neighing horse. I understand your anger was more due to the fact that you thought I was playing an ill-mannered joke, but I can assure you I had been sincere until she turned around. No hard feelings. I do not blame you for birthing such a creature.
Sir Henry Adam Wood
P.S. I have sent some money from my infinite funds for your daughter to see a good dentist. Maybe he will be able to do something about those teeth and she will finally find a suitor. Also, I recommended your lemon meringue tarts to my housekeeper and was surprised to discover they make a rather efficient lavatory bowel remover.
I shortened this text for trocar, and incorporated a bit of Rayzer1's baker letter.
Created: Apr 04, 2014BreeKrafty Document Media