My dear readers, I must apologise to the vastest majority of you, the kind and decent hearted souls who inhabit library learning centres and poetry circles, who live generous and selfless lives and allow yourself but one pleasure - the infrequent dip into the world wide web to see whether I have contributed any new drips of wisdom into the ocean of human knowledge.

Why? Why am I offering sorrow like a brow-beaten soothsayer from the dark ages? Hark, and I shall abate your curiosity, once Mavis has reached the conclusion of her monthly cleansing of my humble chamber. Who is Mavis, I hear you cry like a falling swan. Has Ernest R Soul, the sensitive, poetic, bastion of virtue and innocence, cast asunder the shackles of celibacy and taken unto himself a lover to satisfy the long-buried passion that beats beneath his flaxen cardigan? Has nature’s most powerful yearning finally been given an outlet in the free, beautiful and loving act of sexual congress with a beautiful, young, wanton temptress?

No. Mavis is the new housemaid, and she is a sixty five year old crone-hag from hell.

Since Forbes’ death, my mother took upon herself the entirety of his household chores, and was confined to her bed within a day of cleaning Winthrop Burberry’s toe-nail clippings from the sticky pages of his adult magazines that lie, like a snake in the garden of paradise, under the bowl in the water closet. The responsibility of cleansing the Soul residence was offered to me, but I made it clear that such menial taskettes are not for the likes of myself, and I could not neglect my duties to the written word to wipe the stains of over-indulgence from another man’s undergarments. Winthrop Burberry made it clear he was as unwilling as I, commenting:

"I’d rather sniff me own farts through an exhaust pipe than clean the piss-sweat from Ernie’s shreddies."

Thus, it became clear that a replacement for the lamented Forbes was required. Unfortunately, due to the somewhat reduced financial circumstances of the family, a new butler was alas, out of the question. In fact, employing any household help was out of the question, as the poverty of the Soul finances is only equalled by the poverty of Winthrop Burberry’s language. However, the odious man did come up with a solution that although imperfect, seemed, at the time, adequate:

"There’s this fat old chuffer who’s about a million year old what works at my shop in Cymm, cleaning the crappers on a Saturday. She’ll work for shag all ‘cos she’s foreign, off her chump, and is constantly arseholed. As long as we ply her wi’ brandy beforehand, we’re laughing all the way to the pisspot."

Although, as ever, his words were vile and barely comprehensible, there was a glimmer of sense in them, and it was agreed. Mavis Olabrother moved her belongings into the garden shed the following day, and she has been with us ever since, babbling incoherently to herself in some foreign tongue and occasionally urinating on my pillow. Despite these occasional lapses, her tidying and washing skills are beyond reproach, and.... hark! Her mission of the day is complete, and she is returning the vacuum cleansing machine to its base camp beneath the stairwell. Sometimes I wish I could communicate with her in her native speech, but alas while my knowledge of English is impeccable, I speak but a little Dutch and nothing more besides.

But no matter - I must return to the subject that I began this offering with some moments ago - the apology to the majority of my readers. You, the good majority, enjoy my words without feeling the urge to pass comment, judgement, or dare I say, even criticism. My sorrow for you is due to the fact that today’s epistle is given over in almost entire part to comments, judgements, and criticisms from the smallest minority of you, and my replies to all that passes. Never let it be said that Ernest R Soul is not a man who does not stand by what he says.

I am overcome with shame and mortification. I hereby apologise to the entire nation of Holland, its people, its provinces, and any party that may have been held at any time within its borders. Speaking from deep within my soul, I beg forgiveness and pray that one day I shall be able once again to doff my cap at Holland in friendship, and that a Dutch cap will be doffed back at me.

Yours sincerely,