Dearest Intimate Soulie,

Am so glad my crabs arrived safely upon your person, and that they brought you so much joy.

I forgot to explain the goaty soap in my letter: I actually petted the goats who gave the milk, which was then turned into your soap! Those goats are close personal friends of mine. Or they were, until the farmer made them into goat salami (not kidding, and it was delish).

I hope you appreciate the epic journey my crabs made for you. Two weeks ago I dragged those crabs from my office to La Poste, but there were 15 people in the queue, so I turned back in despair.

The crabs then journeyed home in my handbag, thence to the Haute Savoie by car. Two days later I slogged two and a half kilometres on foot through snow and ice to Habère-Poche Post Office only to learn they had no bubble pack posting bags. I resolutely legged it to the local bookshop, and discovered they had just sold their last bubble pack posting bag.

Gritting my teeth and whimpering slightly, I crawled back on hands and knees through a dangerous blizzard with zero visibility to our prison holiday camp. The next day my dear spouse drove us to Chamonix, which has a Post Office! Help was at hand!

Upon parking the car, we had to sprint to catch the last train of the afternoon up the Mont Blanc and its famous glacier La Mer de Glace. I cradled those precious crabs close to my heart (well, in my back pack) until we arrived back in town at 5.05 pm, i.e. just AFTER the Chamonix post office closed.

My entire holiday was spent with one obsession: to post the fucking parcel to The Lovely Ms. Mac before the crabs went whiffy.

They travelled all the way across France back to My Quaint Village before I was finally able to buy a bubble bag and sodding post them. May they bring you much happiness.

Martyred Love and Self-Sacrificing Kisses,
Antipo

xxxxxxxxxx