Sorry about the few spelling mistakes in my last Newsletter but I was very upset.
I am much better now, thank you, and have received several emails of support during this very difficult time - many of them offering sympathy and advice on how to cope with George's passing.
Reverend Jacobs asked that I call in at his church next Sunday for guidance and strength. I said thanks but that I'd probably have recovered enough by then and I'd phone him sometime. Reverend Jacobs is very nice but can be a bit overpowering. He speaks too slowly and softly for my liking and I find my hand turning around as if to wind him up.
I think he means well and I suspect he may be brighter than one imagines. In fact, these suspicions were confirmed just as I was trying to drag myself away. He suddenly held onto my arm and whispered that, if I came to his Church and put £50 into his collection box, could I not claim it back on MPs expenses.
"Thanks Jake," I said. "I hadn't thought of that one. If I drop in £50 can you give me a receipt for £100?"
My dear friend, Mullah Mohamed then phoned me from the Krupton mosque and suggested I join him on his mat next morning. While we were at it I suggested we might make a quick check to see how George was coping with his three hundred virgins. Mohamed thought this was a good idea.
I then said to him that the last time I'd seen ninety three year old George, he had told me he could hardly get up the stairs let alone get anything else up.
Mohamed smiled behind his beard and said that George would feel like a new man once he'd passed onwards and upwards - or at least he hoped he would.
Mohamed said that he, himself, was already looking forward to going there. In fact, he had already offered to go voluntarily in order to get Sharia law introduced by the next Parliament. He had heard that the trip up to that garden where all the virgins sit around under the palm trees eating boxes of sticky dates was very, very quick. It would, in fact, feel just like the high speed lift in the Shard.
Anyway, after we'd discussed the merits of modern architecture and how such buildings might withstand modern warfare, Mullah Mohamed offered to drive me over to his brother's shop in his new Mercedes.
His brother, Khalil, runs a halal butchers mixed up with Islamic literature and Mohamed said he was sure he would do me a nice bit of goat if I could raise a question about Sharia law in PM Questions after the recess.
As for the goat meat, I could pay Khalil in Saudi Arabian riyals if I like as he was running some sort of school with his uncle in Islamabad. This all sounded very complicated to me so I said I'd call him another time to get a better understanding.
But then, the offers of meat came thick and fast. Why people wanted to talk about flesh just as I'm trying to get over watching George's coffin disappear behind a curtain I don't know.
But straight after bidding Mohamed a hasty farewell and still wondering whether I should perhaps phone MI6, I bumped into Kaj - as we locals call him.
Kaj was stood smoking something strange outside the West Indian takeaway. He said something like, "Hey, Quent, man," and I did a thing we call a "high five" with him as I know he still retains some of the ancient customs of his forefathers.
Kaj had, apparently, just got back from a holiday in Cameroon and first started speaking to me in French. This was a little strange but I think he really didn't want passers-by hearing him speaking English.
I told him not to be so scared and that Krupton was a very open minded sort of place and, anyway, they normally rushed past huddled under wind-swept umbrellas and only ever heard the rain and wind. Anyway, after another quick look around, he reverted to his strange English dialect and asked me if I liked baboon meat.
I said I hadn't tasted baboon before and I asked him if it was nice.
"Yeh, Quent," he said, "Very meaty. You should try it, man!"
I said I'd try anything as long as I had seen someone eating it first so Kaj went in and came out with a large, brown paper bag with grease stains all over it. He was licking his fingers, which I assume meant he'd just bitten off a piece of barbequed baboon.
"Nice with fresh broccoli" he said and grinned at me.
I thanked him and started to walk home but with grease running down my arms. As I passed the Golden Fleece, Frankly the Pitbull terrier came out, saliva dribbling from his jaws and started following me. Then, as if I hadn't had enough ethnic diversity for one day, guess who I bumped into? My wife!
I'll write a bit more, later.