A letter to dear old Nan

Sorry about the flowers on your grave Nan. I think a cat got them, or those bloody kids from number 45. They never were a good bunch of kids. I remember chasing those little shits down the road with my baseball bat many years ago, just to keep them off the blackcurrant bushes at the end of the garden. The little shits. No good now of course, now your up there, spying on everyone. The blackcurrants and the gooseberries in your old garden are a free for all, to all the scroungers and Pikey's, who still manage to put a caravan site where it ain't wanted. Oh, and the old bag from 37 sends her best. Whatever that means? She's just jealous about the procession you had through town. The last time she saw that amount of flowers, she was rolling over them with Uncle Fred during the flower festival of 1947. How a lovely festival can go so wrong in so few minutes is quite staggering. The small community of Romford still hasn't recovered, but it now has a better view of what it's like to live in the outside World. Sorry I can't stay longer, but it's cat injection week, and if I don't get mine done, he'll be pissing up the wall for another few months. Lots of love..me