I was thinking hot air balloon for my darling, and me, the shotgun-anonymous, stood among a herd of cows. Agatha Christie mystery, wellingtons as evidence, very passionate screenplay of his. No, I dunno really, I love all my marriage arrangement, and the children sometimes. But would you, my writer pals, as an exercise, enjoy, and like to write a table love scene for me, for us*, in a restaurant, perhaps? [I MEAN WF*, NOT FOR ME AND HER] You can end it under silk sheets, or fizzle pathetic at your 150 words, you worm. Either ways I shall read it alone, mmm mmm marmite over my wrinkly skin. If there are no takers by the weekend I shall never come here again.