Begging email to my friend Pete

As you sit at your desk reading this email, you’re dwarfed by a swaying skyscraper’s worth of CDs. For your health’s sake, do read on…

If you cup your hand to your ear you’ll be able to hear a high-pitched chorus of little voices. They’re crying out and you strain to hear what they’re saying… “Please Mr Marsh,” they’re calling “oh please send us to Colin, we do so want to be reviewed by him. He’s firm, but fair and if we’re crap he’ll say so, he’s just like you in that regard, but we would soooooo like to nestle in a lovely little brown parcel, encased in a thin, but sturdy layer of bubble-wrap. Oh, the pleasing thud as we hit the hall floor of number 7 on the inestimable urban terrace that is Gaywood Road. Pleeeeeeeeese Mr Marsh. Oh do send us there to our destinies…

(There have been predecessors to this latest missive: here and here.)