Mr Cicolluis
Dear Nixie, I write to you in the strictest of confidence and swamped by the unwieldy crick of a tortured ticker. Chitter chatter, nitter natter round the band camp has spread word of your golden chalice. Is it really so? May I enter the venerable tabernacle ramshackled by cool kitty cat mover and shaker? Have you reached that snowy apogee of hyperborean cool? Will you bring me the cup of iced cube “it” crew so that I might go down, down to the wild side. You see, the truth is I really do require your assistance in such matters of cupid’s itch where the scritch tickles my fancy to the point of no return. Nixie, I’ve a certain lady in mind for some lingual intercourse followed by perhaps a little lookie at some nookie. My usual Saturday night would most likely consists of a robust jousting session at the local Medieval restoration centre with a late night rendevu skping an intense evenings role play in the dark depths of a particularly testing dungeon (and I’m not talk