Dear Madam,
First thing’s first: I’m so sorry. I would never in a million years steal anything from anyone, let alone this three-foot tall, stone bird bath from your garden. Yet, here I am, stealing it, making off into the cool suburban night, pausing only to write this note.
So clearly, I’m lying about the million years thing. You’ve worked that out, you’re a smart lady. The real truth is: I’m at a bad place in my life. I’ve lost my job, everyone says I’ve singlehandedly annihilated social liberalism in the United Kingdom (whatever the hell that is) and worst of all, my father (Triton, King of the Sea) wants me to get up and sing in front of all his friends just because I’ve a voice sweeter than nectar. I literally HATE my life and I would give anything to have legs instead of a tail.
So, as you can see: things are bleak right now. And I just figure that if I had more stuff,somehow I’d be a better person. And your bird bath looked so marvellous, what kind of man would I be if I just walked on and pretended it never existed? Mr Richmond over the road has a stunning Grecian amphora planter which I know he’ll be fine about once he’s had a run down of the situation. And Mrs Hodge at number twelve has a ceramic floppy-eared bunny on her front porch which, frankly, I would rather die than leave your street without. I have already named him ‘Hamish’ and he will live with me now and I will take care of him.
By now, madam, I feel you understand my woes. Think of me as you gaze out your kitchen window at the scabby, disappointed birds in your garden. Imagine how no judicial punishment for theft can match the punishment I face every time I look in this rustic pergola garden mirror (so sorry, I will replace it when I am better).
Until then, I remain wishing I could be,
Nick Clegg (Part of Your World)
