[Varley]

The Irish lady with whom I was breakfasting in London last October engaged the couple at the next table (in much the way as last Wednesday she ambushed a red haired gentlemen with and Irish accent when we were out dining with another friend of ours). Amongst the other life data she extracted from them was that she had delivered the clap lecture at my old school (in my day it was merely a rather technicolourful short film) and we had an acquaintance in common (Sister Kiehne). I am not so sure that qualifies me to give you that as a diagnosis.

I have yet to know what she intends to do with the red haired gentleman's bank details, shoe size and the number of his return flight extracted without so much as a drop of scapolamine broached. Perhaps I shall hear tonight when she parties the multitude.

Upon request I am sure she would proffer you some Hibernian home remedies. I fear, however, the cure for clap will involve dipping you old man in poteen or perhaps applying a poultice of potato leaves and ones own urine. I have not cashed in any of her prescriptions since I tried blowing seawater up my nose to relieve congestion.