Dear Mr. Macadam,
My bride and I are desirous of a comfy cottage in the country. I am getting to that mellow age where in the number of stairs, the slickness of slate walks and damp ample leaves and any obstruction shadowed by my city successful girth…I say, the time of life when quiet and domestic felicity are that happy mix unspoiled by too real of rustic complexities…jerking about power tools, staggering under an armful of kindling for “Ma” to start that breakfast fire. No, no, Mr. Macadam, my youthful bride…while many fleet of foot years lie before her dainty slippers, I see a short stumble to the orthopedic chair.
In short, sir, the missus and I shall be motoring into your green country this weekend, and would very much like to inspect a selection of your properties appropriate for genteel pioneer living…something suited for the plutocrat and his concubine…child bride. I joke here, sir, as I may assure you I share with you and yours the strongest adoration of solid middle class living, unpretentious, jolly simple…clarity in all things, strong healthy boundaries between folks. Rest assured your Odd Fellows and Lions and Optimists, and the other secret societies with their occult handshakes and to the death whispered passwords…need fear no violation of rural taboos here…no pagan blood sacrifices, no unnatural cross-species mating…
Well, I digress…suffice to know we strain forward through the windshield of our motoring sedan…eager this Saturday to review your vast network of rustic abodes of bliss.
I.M. Wimsey, Ph.D.