Will You Marry Me?

My Darling Bernadette,

As I write this letter I am holed up in a cave on the edge of the burning sands, near Bognor Regis in Sussex.

I know that right now we are separated by circumstances and many miles, and I really should wait until we are together again, but life is short and I don't know how long I have before they will come for me.

If I'm very lucky I'll make it back to you once more.

I am missing all the exotic entertainments - the penny arcades, the fish and chip shops, the pubs and sticks of sea-side rock candy.

But I must evade capture if we're ever to stand a chance of being wrapped extra tightly in each other's arms once more.

Oh, and I'm missing out on the pickled cockles and mussels and the candy floss. And the fairground.

How I wish to share all of it with you - the cry of the gulls, the raucous laughter of happy drunks, the laughing policeman...

The point is - damn! I'm trying to write romantically as I shiver in my cave, bot it's difficult. The sands may be burning, but my eyes will be too after this bloody freezing force 10 gale has blown a square acre or two of it straight into them - now where was I?

The point is, Bernie, I love you, and if I could I would send  hundreds of rainbow colored sparkly butterflies flitting across the ocean straight to you, carrying a banner that enquires, spelled out in heavens very own perfumed blossoms:

"Bernadette Taggart, will you marry me?"

As it is, you'll have to be content with my proposal written on the back of this paper bag and sent to you in a re-used envelope. You might have to pay the postage when it reaches you. I'm sorry if the bag's a bit sticky, it had jelly doughnuts in it.

Only say yes and I will move heaven and earth to make it safely to your side and tie the knot  very snugly and permanently .

Please send your reply very quickly to PO Box 27451 Bognor, because I really must keep moving.

Only remembr that I love you, my little turtledove, and long with growing excitement for the time when we can be side by side again, eating warm soup with cheese-on-toast and drinking hot tea in front of a blazing log fire.

Yours,

Marcelle