[John Whitworth]

Not quite what was meant perhaps, but it deserves an outing.

Mon Cher,
Le Criquet – magique! Zut alors! C’est bon! C’est what your right arm’s for. To bowl le bal, to power le bat, to score les courirs. Fancy that. Mais comme vieux Jacques Crapaud joue, c’est une mystère to moi et vous. Le futbol, oui, le rugbie aussi. Mais lbw et bosie, coupé tard, bal mort, jambe fracture? C’est sanglant ridicule, bien sûr. Le Criquet, c’est un jeu anglais, quelquechose les grenouilles say.
Your vieux mate, John Bull

[Orwn Acra]

She was mon cherry, mon savoir-lady-fair. Mysterieux! Hiding behind her nom de plumage, her hair in some sort of je ne sais coif, she sat, sans chemise, around la table nibbling au courants and spooning soupçon. It was coup de food. It was love at first bite. It was chez my house. Enchanté! She parlay-voodoo'd, "Avez-vous faim? Voulez-vous une croque-madame?" Zut allures! I wanted femme, coquette, and madame! A ménage à quarte! But, no, a mauvais quart d'heure, a pièce of résistance threatening to ruin my cul d'état: a mousse! A petite mousse scurrying sur la table from fromage to well-âged fromage. She eek'd, shrieked. I quashed, quelled the horreur, prêt-à-deported it to heaven animaux, and awaited my bonbon. Encore? I give you la petit more: I kiss, we tryst, and the rest is too risque.

[Ann Drysdale]

Promise me you will enter this in the competition?

[John Whitworth]

I hope Orwn does, but he'd better get word counting. Looks like more than 150 words.

[Brian Allgar]

Nope - 136.

[Orwn Acra]

Ann, I promise. I was going to send it off this morning but wondered if it was sufficiently like a letter.

[Brian Allgar]

Originally Posted by Orwn Acra

Ann, I promise. I was going to send it off this morning but wondered if it was sufficiently like a letter.

Well, you've still got fourteen words to play with if you want to add a sentence that will make it more letter-like.