From the Potting Shed of Mr Virgil Twobyfour

End of the Lane (just past the bin where the fox lives)

Possibly Tuesday

To the Esteemed Dame Judi Dench
c/o The Theatrical Ether,
London, or Somewhere Near Enough

Subject: You Left Your Scarf on the Number 23 Bus in 1971. I Have It.

Dear Dame Judi,

I hope this finds you upright, wrapped in something warm, and untroubled by dreams of seaweed. I write to you regarding a matter of some urgency, which I’ve only recently recalled due to a sudden memory triggered by the scent of damp wool and Fisherman’s Friend (Original, not Aniseed, obviously).

Back in November of 1971 — or possibly April, time was having one of its flappy episodes — you boarded the Number 23 bus in Lower Titching. I was there too, en route to a regional mustard symposium, and I distinctly recall you alighting three stops later, leaving behind a paisley scarf of rare and particular fluff. I have had it ever since, and have worn it only ceremonially (i.e., during eclipses and on Stir-Up Sunday).

Should you wish it returned, it’s currently airing over the Rayburn alongside a selection of my most forgiving undergarments. It still smells faintly of lavender and destiny.

Also enclosed: a recipe for Pickled Radish (Elder Moon Method), an annotated programme from the 1983 Argyle Amateur Pantomime (“King Lear on Ice”), and a personal invitation to the village Annual Shadow Puppet Gala, held this year behind the Post Office due to last year’s unfortunate incident with the fire warden and the cardboard kraken.

I must also commend you on your performance in that thing you did. You were transcendent — or at least extremely convincing. I wept openly into a flan.

Do let me know if you’re free for a cup of something with a mysterious froth. I’ve been experimenting with nettle cordial and would value your insights before it re-ferments.

With admiration, high regard, and a faint smell of parsnips,

Virgil Twobyfour
Former Short-Order Pastry Chef,
Current Shwami,
Not Yet Legally Dead

P.S. The scarf says hello.