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I NEED to sit on you and tickle you with my little legs. I NEED to be really loud and annoying. I NEED to sit on your body instead of literally anything else in your room. I NEED to put my yucky tongue on any food or drink you're having.

i will spell color as colour and use degrees celcius. i would watch Sherlock on BBC all night while drinking a cuppa tea with my flatmates. i’ll have fish and chips every day that’s worth 5 quid. i would go to gaff parties every night. i am also more likely to meet chavs, One Direction, Ed Sheeran and the Queen.

It is with utmost urgency that I commit to paper an occurrence so singular that I fear it may strain your credulity. I trust this message finds you in sound health and undisturbed repose, for I cannot say the same of those unfortunate enough to dwell within the vicinity of yo esteemed mama.

Having, by circumstances too tedious to recount, passed the evening beneath her roof, I was shortly after midnight awakened by a most dreadful and prolonged rumbling, so profound in its depth that I mistook it first for distant cannonade, then for an earthquake, and finally for the Last Trump itself. Imagine my astonishment upon discovering the disturbance emanated not from Heaven or the deepest bowels of Hell, but from the singularly vacant stomach of yo good mama.

The tumult was of such prodigious force that every sleeper in the household sprang from his bed in confusion. Even the old groundskeeper, who I know for a fact has slept through thunder-bolts and musket fire alike, emerged from his shack demanding to know who had sounded the alarm.

I entreat you, dear friend, to prevail upon yo mama to partake of a modest supper before retiring, lest her entire estate be compelled to awaken at the command of her insatiable stomach.

I remain, with every sentiment of esteem,

Your most obedient and humble servant,