I hate asking for days off work.

Hello Heather

How are you? I hope you are well. Please accept my commiserators on your recent loss - I know you enjoyed the company your pet rabbit, Flufty, offered you very much, and shall miss him terribly in his absence. I feel I must apologise also, because I cannot help but feel slightly to blame for the whole, sorry affair, for as you know, it was I who reversed my car over Flufty as he scampered free as a bird on your gravelled driveway. I admit, I saw the young scamp gallivanting around, and could have halted my car in time, but, as you may recall, relations between Flufty and myself have been somewhat soured as of late, ever since the 'Jewellery Heist' experience of last summer. Whilst I don't wish to go into detail over the experience, and uncover old memories, I would like to remind you that it was Flufty, not I, who tripped the alarm system, and again, it was Flufty, not I, who failed to remember to fill the tank of the getaway car. Whilst I was still sprinting down the vault corridor, trying to dodge the security guard's bullets, Flufty had, for want of a better word, already fucked off. Now, call me a sceptic, but I do not believe Flufty's tale of him being transported to a Lord Of The RIngs-esque middle earth world, inhabited by Elves, Orcs, Goblins and well-respected gentlemen proudly bearing gigantic beards - you know the type, the kind of man who just looks like a man. A man a man can call a man's man and call on when he needs a man who can fit a man shaped hole where only a man's man can fit. A man who can be called on when a man needs a man. You understand what I'm trying to say.

As we all know, Flufty returned with far-fetched tales of such men, but to my knowledge , he was telling an enormous porky pie. Flufty had not been to Park Lane Royal Gentlemen's Club, which, as all who keep an eye on current events, is the only place where such men can be found. The esteemed gentlemen of the Club wouldn't be seen farting around, fagging up the air with their beards and pet elves, dropping their rings into rivers of fire and embarking on an adventure laced with intent and homo-erotic undertones. No, of course they wouldn't. They would be discussing the stock market, drinking brandy, and betting their newspaper businesses on the outcome of a race around the world between Rear Admiral Lord Henry St. Staffordshire Johnson Hadely-Smythe III and Field Marshall Sir Anthony Charles James Beresford M.B.E, Duke of Norfolk and godson to his Majesty Edward VI.

But that's neither here no there. Basically, Flufty was talking shit. Two policemen spotted me holding the stolen jewels, and chased me into an alley whereupon I was forced to dickwhip them into submission. However, one had time to call for backup, and it was only due to my quick thinking and impressive groin that I was able to escape, albeit without the jewels, and have been in hiding ever since, whilst that rabbit of yours has grown fat on freedom. Thus, when I furtively appeared at your Somerset mansion last weekend, to attend the barbecue celebrating your ascension into the House of Lords, I spotted Flufty in the driveway, a fat cigar hanging from his mouth and a meat pie in his paws, I accelerated rapidly towards him. The little cunt ducked underneath my wheels, cigar and pie forgotten, but was not quick enough to escape my almost stunt-man quick reversing manoeuvre. I also drove over him a second time, just to make sure.

So, please accept my sincerest apologies for killing your beloved rabbit, though it was a total shit. And I also regret my following decision to turn up at your house drunk, as I fear this may have speeded my decision to run Flufty over, and it almost certainly had a helping hand in my following decision to strip naked and wear the flattened body of Flufty as a makeshift hat. Again, I apologise for this. And I must apologise further for making rather forward advances on members of your family. If/when your grandfather comes out of his coma, would you please forward this apology to him.

By way of repairing the strained relations between us, I would like to take Monday 12th March off work, so I can prepare a suitable burial for Flufty at my Lancashire house Cholmondesley Manor. I will hold a small memorial service, followed by a respectful wake. There will be party sausages and pineapple chunks and cheddar on sticks. There will also be jelly and rumour is, Gary The Musical Clown may make an appearance.

I look forward to hearing from you, or if this has forwarded on to your lawyers, from them.

Yours

Captain Otis Koln Weathersley Pervical-Jivefunk O.B.E., Commander-in-Chief of the Royal British Mediterranean Navy, Her Majesty's Lord of the Admiralty and First Sea Lord of Portsmouth.