Tulkinghorn would like to say a big thank you to James S Barnett, a solicitor and commissioner of oaths from the sunny climes of Hungerford, who recently took some time to put The Lawyer straight on a few points.
In a vastly entertaining, and may I say a very well-written letter, James, whose middle name is Snowden, stated that he found The Lawyer "arid" and unreadable, while calling it a poor relation of Hello! magazine.
Thank goodness, then, that "Snowy", as he is now known in the office, showed us how it should be done by sending in a book of poems, all of which are written by himself.
Indeed, Tulkinghorn is humbled by such a majestic collection of staggering genius. Compared with The Lawyer's dry take on news, Snowy's work is the liquid gold of poetry, and if anyone has the audacity to imply that he is the poor man's Philip Larkin, then they ought to be ashamed of themselves.
But don't just take Tulkinghorn's word for it – judge for yourselves with a couple of Snowy's "humorous" poems. The first is certainly succinct, and is entitled Francis Albert Sinatra:
Your sound (en passant)
Is the edge between words and music.
Or if that doesn't get your literary juices flowing, how about On Writing:
Though I drink milk
I don't froth grated cheese,
But a diet of the Greats
Boy! And do I froth.
I have tried poetry
For it is less hard on the wrist
Than the Novel,
While the Essay must be topical
And be broadcast.
All this talent and a doctorate in fine arts. Isn't it enough to bring tears to your eyes?
