The Letters...

Dear Ms Nixie, It is with much excitement that I learnt of your existence and I feel it would only have been frightfully amiss of me not to write you. That you have created a porthole to the world of history is beyond the hungry clock going back for empty seconds and into a realm of new truth, honour and justice for my fellow sisters. This is not, although rightly so for the sake of myself alone, but, even greater is the need for my story to be shared for the rightful empowerment of all women. You might know me by my husband more than you know me well….by me., the wife of a great botanist, Mr Joseph Banks. I am Dorethea Hugessen and through luck and luck alone, I’m afraid, as it was back in the day of my lifetime, did I   land myself in the role of heiress to a considerable fortune. My husband too was lucky in such regard and our combined wealth became the talk of the town. Such frivolous gossip was nothing to my aching heart and longing to be loved and respected in equal foot...

Dear Ms N. Imure, As you might very well be aware I am the most assiduous of advisors and acutely occupied in social circles of all the right hobnobbing and mingling fraternizers. Why there’s rarely a Saturday night where I’m not catching up with the Targaryen’s for tea or Tim Wonnacott for a hunt round the town….very busy, very busy my dear. It’s not often then that I should come by even a moments breath to pen a second reply to any of my adoring epistorlarians. In your case I should think an exception might definitely become the new rule. How was it that you got on with Mr Merlin then? Please write me, wherever you are oh lovely excursionist of time. Yours Truly, Nixie. Dear Ms Nixie, It is most definitely serendipity that you should write this here wayfarer and former (unofficial) advisor to the great Merlin. You see I happened to be walking across a beautiful Welsh field, lush and lavishly covered in the spoils of spring and all of it asking questions of the Wy...

Dear Ms Nixie, I write with news of the gra vest tra vest y. I bring word of the sua ves t in vest ry, the finest, li vest,  in vest igatory har vest and study of sheer manhood. I speak in the bra vest of tongue, well aware in the economics of heart, that truth has brought with it a di vest iture of promise and yet.... still hope lives and thus I find myself here looking for the vest advice. Ms Nixie, I know only the jersey, the sweater, the darling pullover ...oh that whole piece, sleeves and all. Born unto a long line of Aran Islanders, it has been bequeathed that I shall always know the warmth of Galway at my breast (with the promise of snug arms too). The trouble now? The vest is yet to come. I have my heart entangled in nothing but the in vest ment of love and yet my family would never have such scandal. Nixie, the two shan't meet, the vests and the jumpers, the coverings and the raw will of brevity, even in the face of a cold, dark winter. It has been taught and told and...

Dearest Nixie, In time travelling the lost frontiers might it be in history that we find our future? I am here to say it is so and prithee may we ponder and in pondering may we remember this: " When in doubt mumble. When in trouble, delegate. When in charge, ponder." James. H, Boren It seems I am in rather a good spot of trouble Dear Miss and I've come forwards ..."Where the world is ancient, the world is new, the dreams are yet to come true..." Howard Draper , in rather the bit of a mumbling mess. Regretfully, I, all but an afterling of neither grace nor finery and from the year 1128 Anno Domini,  must but soul serf a practical peasants lot in the trantles of my wenchly wattle cruck, knowing full well, resistance is all but feudal. You see upon arrival I was named. I was titled lowly. I was given little of nothing and my birthright only toil and depreciation. And yet.... I found everything and more in the cockles of a good hat! Might I make your acqua...

Dear Ms Nixie, I write to you in good fairy faith with eyes wide open and defences at the ready, however I feel they may already have been breached.  Forgive me, if I might sound a little slowpoke, for I find myself in a dazed stupor, spending entire days loafing at the waters edge. You see it seems the charm of a certain Mr. C. Harmander has overwhelmed my resistance and, as is, with all of our kind (the jiggly type), we lack inherent defence against the fire types. Oh my, not even a puff of magic dust can solve the fire types willingness to resist our charms. Just one smoking sashay of his flaming caboose and the fluff in my puff goes to a jiggling mess. You see, It's not just the size of his tail, it's the way he uses it that renders me weak at the appendages. It seems my voice has sent him to sleep. The frequency was all but wrong. Oh dear, what shall I do? No matter how much I pound him or play rough, nothing can quench his wandering eye for every little sassy ponyta tha...