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Paddy, I think I'm dying.
I don't mean "dying" in the generic, fate-of-all-mankind way; not as in "we're-all-going-to-die-some-day" type of statement. I really think I'm getting to the end of the race, so to speak.
And before you ask, yes, I am quite sure of it, thank you!
So, as someone who is leaving the party, allow me some last minute requests (consider them the words I've been dying to speak):
First of all, please don't ask me why I'm dying. Or rather, why I think I'm dying. I really don't know. I just feel different these last months, and believe I am quite capable of deciphering the myriad little messages my body keeps sending me. If anyone should know, I should know! I know I said that I don't know why I'm dying, but I do know that I am dying. I trust your little mind can wrap itself around the Queen's good English, my Irish friend.
Secondly, please don't phone me up and say you're sorry. It's not as if it's your fault, is it? So why apologize? And if you mean "sorry" as in "I'm feeling sorry for myself because I will miss the sublime privilege of your company", well, don't be so base and egocentric! I mean, I'm the one that's dying, and you're feeling sorry for you? No, that would be too much for me to take at this stage of the proceedings.
Thirdly, don't ask me to leave you anything. My will is written out, signed and sealed, so it's too late. Carol gets everything. Oh, and remember your trite, tired, tiring and trying little joke? "Where there's a will, I want to be in it"? Well, there's one here, mate, but you're not in it.
Fourthly, you can forget about my darling Carol. I know you fancy her, but she's faithful! Last night I told her about my impending demise, and I can still hear her promise ringing in my ears: "My darling, I'll remain a widow till my dying day. Or yours, whichever comes first" (she has that habit of adding little snippets to everything she says. I rarely understand them, but I love her little Irish quirks).
And finally, if all this comes as a shock, well, I can't say I'm sorry. You thought you were my best friend, didn't you? Well, I'll finally spell it out for you: I hate, loath and despise you! Why? Because you're false, that's why! All these ten years you've pretended to like me, but it's Carol you like. Oh, I know it all, mate! Six months ago I saw a message on her iPhone which you had sent, and she then told me everything. She showed me all the little messages describing imaginary nights you spent with her when I was travelling (as if I don't trust my own wife!), and even those photos of both of you in bed (you're good with Photoshop, I have to admit). I was going to kill you, nice and slowly, but she told me it didn't mean anything to her. She admitted that she never even read the messages, nor looked at the photos, and only kept them all in her safe in case she needed to show them to me some day, the little pet! And, if I made the matter public, she would be slandered, so I agreed to keep it all quiet.
And that is probably what's been killing me slowly since then. To know that you, my "best friend", were tormenting my wife for years. To know that you even suggested she kill me with little doses of poison in those lovely lemon pies she makes me every Sunday. How stupid. Did you actually think I'd stop eating them because of that? I trust Carol with my life, mate!
I've asked her to post this for me, as I'm too weak to leave the house. I've been going rapidly down hill these last days, but I relish this little victory at the end of the day: your heaviest blow will be posted to you by the one you love most! Deal with it, mate!
Au revoir to you. Don't bother coming to the funeral. Oh, and Carol says: "Tell him I still love the only love of my life". Which, of course, is me, you fool.
Yours, Sir Richard Peabrain, VC, KBE, MP.
