6. Dear St Patrick

Dear St Patrick,

I passed a man on the street yesterday who was telling a girl that you killed a dragon and saved all Ireland.

If he hadn’t been trying to get into the girl’s pants I would’ve stopped and corrected him.

Yesterday was your name day but today I have passed not one but three people wearing green.

I wore all green yesterday and today I am green under my eyes from too much Guinness and too little sleep.

I’m a great ambassador for your name day.

But I wonder if you would be pleased by how we celebrate. It’s all very Christian still. We share a hearty meal, we drink deep draughts of the cup, and we listen to uplifting music.

There is, it’s true, perhaps a little idolatry with the worship of leprechauns, but all the poets have taught us that the Irish are very attached to their gentle folk.

Of course, St Patrick, I must admit that we do not always show our reverence, calling the day instead San Paddys, or Paddys, or even, I’m a little ashamed to say, Guinness Day.

I’m not sure if you’d be pleased with the spectacular success of that Irish black gold all around the world on your day; it has reached places even the word of god has not.

I think, Patrick, that if you were here today you would have to slay a dragon and it’s name would be Guinness.

Slainte,
Me.

5. Dear Aliens

Dear Aliens,

When you come visit from space and step upon our beautiful bountiful Earth you may look about yourselves and be agog at our fantastic buildings and magnificent vistas and compare them to the barchan dunes of Mars.

You may look at our hairy skin and the fur and scales of our animals and notice the differences to your own gnarled and ratchety exteriors.

You may wonder at our small front-facing eyes and our non-scent-susceptible central noses and our ears with white strings dangling out of them.

What could those white strings be for?

Perhaps your scientists will postulate that they are some sort of shielding mechanism to protect us from the harsh rays of the sun penetrating our holey ozone.

Or, noticing that they often terminate in our trousers, your biologists will theorise that they are a reproductive device.

A rebel group of social scientists may controversially speculate that they are drug dispensers, regularly tranquillising us and keeping us moderate.

Or maybe your alien anthropologists, commenting on their distribution, will deduce that they are symbols of wealth and are  used to attract a mate.

Aliens, when you see our dangly white things, I think all of your theories will be correct.

Me.

4. Dear Green Bus

Dear Green Bus,

I admire your waist to ceiling windows and I know enough about engineering to admire your structural ingenuity.

I like your red arrows which show which way is forward, and I like your green pants and wheels and hat.

But, Green Bus, I can’t help thinking that you’ve chosen that lovely lurid green to convince me that you’re environmentally sound.

BP did the same thing years ago.

I’ll bet, Green Bus, that your researchers found that some reasons why people switch to buses is to use less petrol, to save money and to be environmentally sound.

Green is a good colour for all of these.

It also means go.

Do you remember a time before marketing research, when people sold goods instead of packaging?

No, I dont remember it either.

That must have been back in the days before buses kneeled on request and when black people had to catch different buses or sit up the back. You would know, Green Bus, was there ever a time when women werent welcome on your seats? I suppose buses have been the prerogative of the white working classes and working class women have always had more freedom than classy women or black folk.

Green Bus, I’m no environmental fairy myself, but I dress the part so I can’t talk.

I am then, your fellow green mask wearer,

Me.