Dear Aunt Sally,

I fort I’d write and tells you about the mooiscal shenanigans going on at the farm.

I snuck out of the turnip field on Friday morning as Farmer John was putting up a big tent and mingled in wiv helpers setting up a shed on wheels with potties in it and the big maypole that people dance round.

Farmer John nor his family don’t seem to have clocked me here though he made me and I’m wearing his old jacket. I swapped my hat with a bloke as was playing a toon on a Vera Lynn and I think that’s what’s dunnit – they must think I’m one of the punters as have paid fifty squids to be here.

So far, I have joined in with shantey singing, been on a walk to see old Oaky in the wild wood next door, eated summat called amburglers with relish – which is jam and nothing to do with smacking yer lips – and done summat called yogi. This is lying down on a carpet and going to sleep like Farmer John’s dogs do when we look at em through the winda.

The crows came by and telled me they’re going to dob me in to the farmer’s missus but I said I’ll throw rocks at em if they don’t shut thems cake-holes and so they flied off. This folk festival lark is a marvlus thing, Sally, and I really wish you was here!

Have fun with the circus and give my best regards to the clowns.

Love Worzel

This piece came from a ‘write a postcard’ prompt used in one of my creative writing night-class sessions for LU Arts.