Because Miriam hadn’t got the regulation white shirt to wear for school-


to them as needs to no-
                     missis, my missis arst me to get acleen shat for the mawther this morn
well larstnighte but it wasdusk so I sed as how I’d teak care on it smorn but they dozy beggers
nex dore hant put there lawndry out yit so Miriam have had to ware suthin else swetshat or suthin of har own and corse that all down to me agen
                                    and oblige- neil smalley (fayther)

Because Miriam couldn’t be in two places at once-

To whosomever,
                     It came of late that one apricot-topped damson of your plum-tree of angel-chicks and scholarly seekers of nollige, She the eye of my apple brandy bowl, this daughter of Valerie, my rib, her mother Eve, this morning star of her father’s evening, this crackling Rose, this Lilli this Marlene, Marilyn, this Miriam- this very one, the singular same- did turn up missing in your ranks. Twice.
   At once- of a singing Thrushday morning, 18th of this same month, or when today was a week, to be precise, she did spend the day in voyaging to the Grand Metrolops to inspect, view, appraise and consider the establishment- the going concern- inhabitants, environs, appointments, airs and graces (sanitary arrangements) kit, caboodle and co., trading as The London School of Economics, and to determine whether this firm might have any part to play in the further (than you)  education and preparation for the adult adventure of self-supporting independence (of she, herself, the same) and came the answer ‘No!’
  Safely came she home, slept like a Christian, and was her own sequin-smiled, pink-souled, bright, silk-eyed self, in college the next day. But on bidding you adieu, she made her getaway in Finklegate, in a Sheila-van piloted by her Dam. So Mutti and Mim were off to the North Country Fair to pull their own Barnardo’s caper- the Great North Run (Pet)!
   You’ll be pleased to know that it all passed of very pleasantly (and the good Doctor B. will shortly take delivery of a wad thick enough to choke a donkey) but having kept company for the day with 47,000 runners, plus spectators, in Newcastle, then you have them all wanting to leave Newcastle, and the doors aren’t wide enough, nor is the A1.
   Suffice it to say that Mummy Bear and Baby Bear arrived safely back at their little cottage when the other creatures of the forest were all tucked up asleep (3-ish) except for Dylan’s owl in Bethesda Churchyard. And except for Daddy Bear (well alright, he was asleep but he soon woked up) who said ‘You two had better stay in bed in the morning, and I’ll put your porridge in the hot box’.
   Which is how it fell out that my little Twinkytoes, my Rheinstone Maidchen, meine kleine Kupcake, the Life of my Light, my Valerie’s Valkyr, my Merrylegs, my mirriam turned up, rapt in her absentia- at twice.
   What can I say?