I should be so lucky...lucky...lucky,...lucky...I should be so lucky in love....

'G'day Mates' begins the letter.  Her Rents are a pair of fascist batards, parfait batards, she told us last year while living and learning with us partygirlz in the 'deen.

What an antipodean wheeze! (Mind you, perhaps we should expect no less of fifth generation colonial descendants of convicts!)

Can I, Mr Dad, go and do a gap-year teaching assignment at that quaint, polite, refined, provincial, snooty Scotch girls' school where I had my nose to the academic grindstone (when NOT snifting, snorting and shagging almost anyting kilted) last year, on my exchange?

Miss D (as she has become) is to get behind the noble oak door of the Staffroom.

TyGod.

We have our own built-in SPECIAL AGENT - 0069.

The sexual habits, enthusiasms and practises of Mrs S can NOW be investigated properly!  I mean, just how much of it is actually TRUE, ehhh??

Mr C digs out last year's photies of 0069 in her school hat and white knee socks which he happened to have kept, impressively conscientiously (along with 200 others charting the sojourn of 0069 in The Oil Capital of Europe) The Tesco Trolley Dolly reports, on his personal laptop which he takes home with him.

glowgirl aberdeen