Fruitcakes And Other Nutty Concoctions

I’ve had to again read over some of the emails that have bombarded me during the past two weeks. I’ve been tempted to simply block the writer, but truthfully, once I got over the initial shock, some of the mail has actually been quite entertaining.

In one of our blogs I have written about the hopes of young people in our Moldovan village. None of them want handouts; they want to learn skills so they can better their lives. One of those skill opportunities is the possibility of starting a hairdressing school. I have always thought this to be an excellent idea. Well, at least until just recently.

Apparently, according to one series of emails I’ve received, I’m accused of inviting ‘the Seven Headed Beast’ into a village of the ‘already dammed.’ The emails are so verbose, I have to admit, I can only peruse them briefly, but this rant was to suggest that by my endorsing a hairdressing school, I’m promoting promiscuity and moral turpitude. I wish I were making this up, but for my further edification and reading pleasure, it came with hyperlinks as convincing evidence of the writer’s position.

The writer’s epistle offered me instructional advice as to how to speak with homeless, abandoned, and deserted children. And the writer went on to suggest that if I fail to follow her advice I will be perpetually damned. (Does that mean I will be forced to read her emails in perpetuity?)

My favourite part was a warning to me, regarding a lady named ‘Pinky’ who might be 'trying to offer her services in teaching line dancing at the children’s summer camp.' According to my venerable friend, I need to be aware of the slippery slope I could follow in allowing this woman to teach children the Macarena and dancing to the tune Kokomo by the Beach Boys.

It would be grand if this were the only person who has discovered the far-reaching fingers of the internet. If only! But it is my pleasure to offer some simple responses to a few of the questions I’ve received this week:

(1). No, there is no concern about being shot at from the Iraqi’s when in Moldova; you’re several thousand miles and a continent off there, mate.

(2). Bram Stoker was actually Irish and I’m not convinced that I need to ‘protect myself’ from the ‘blood sucking evils’ that wander the land at night, unless you are referring to some of the people I see in Waffle Houses in the middle of the night, whenever I visit America. But thank you for your concern.

(3). Sir, I will need to leave it to your own imagination as to where people go to the toilet in the dead of winter, when they have no indoor plumbing. But it left me wondering where do americans go to the toilet when the only options they are offered is a room to rest?

(4). Yes Madam, ‘London’ is a quaint little place. No, unfortunately, I haven’t seen The Queen recently, the tube stop in East Sussex seems to have been damaged during the war, but we’re all going to sit down over a cup of tea and scones to see how we can sort that problem out right now!

(5) I assure you Sir, there was no effrontery on my part when I offered a recipe for an English dish called Spotted Dick. You have my word that such a dish really does exist and is not some miss-guided attempt at crude levity! Spotted Dick is as popular as fags here in Britain!

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When We Need a Little Help