Wednesday, 3 September
My Dearest Wealthmore:
Yours received today left me more than a little confused vis the identity of Benchmark or Benchmarck, or a third member of our form whom I am now recalling with less than a little fondness: Benchmarky. As I recall they were made to wear large numbers on their persons so as to ease identification for the faculty, staff and the other students. Would that they had continued this practice into adulthood, hey wot? Not that they looked alike. On the contrary, three people never shared fewer characteristics in the history of the species. It was those names and the inability of all who met them to bother to assign specific places in the pigeon holes of the mind that kept confusion the order of the day.
Of course, Benchmarky no longer clutters events with his presence owing to his enforced absence at the mandatory urging of the law -- he having been tried and convicted of something Benchmark did. Still though, they get each other's copies of The Femly Warning, our alumni newsletter which I believe you edited for several issues. I am pleased to see the pornographic content in TFW has dropped to a mere 42%, down from the preposterous 87% under your editorship. Not that I'm opposed to pornography mind you, it's just I believe everything in its place and a place for everything and the alumni newsletter of an all boys school is not the place for pictorials entitled "Naughty Tram Girls Punch Tickets, Sit on Laps of Over Eager Riders."
Several years ago Benchmarky wrote me from his prison lair. "Dear Isidrio..." he began. "To pass the time I have calculated pi to the thirtieth digit and have memorized same. Trouble is I can't remember my home telephone number now..." I waited a month or so to write him back (as proper etiquette suggests one do when receiving letters from the incarcerated) and explained that there are chaps all over the world who've taken pi out to hundreds and hundreds of digits and that his time wasting activities are redundant and, for lack of a better phrase, a waste of time. A few weeks after that I received his annual Christmas form letter recapping the previous fifty-two weeks doings ("....things perked up in March when I got a new cell mate, a forger named Henri who was pinched for flooding London's private schools with sham report cards for which he received sixpence each. In fact, it is he who wrote this in my own hand. Not a bad job, hey?..."). I have heard little since.
I leave you now knowing that you are whom you say you are as am I.
Until the next time,
B. A. Fred
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