28/10/2014 10:51 GMT | Updated 27/12/2014 05:59 GMT

A Small Selection of Alan Bennett's Sexts

"Hello. If you can see your way clear, I was of a mind to have a bit of a set-to later. You know, sex-wise. If you should fancy it. I can probably accommodate between 3 and 4.30 roughly. After that a man's coming round to adjust my aerial. BBC Two has not been itself since the departure of Jeremy Paxman."

"Hello. I have given my downstairs region a light trim, as you suggested. I caught the clippings with a copy of the free newspaper that they push through the door. Much of it gathered on the face of a local councillor, prominently featured across the centre spread. He was planting a tree. I felt quite wicked."

"Hello. Thank you so much for the various acts of congress yesterday afternoon. It really was, to coin a phrase often employed by the venerable Mr. Groves, who was both our local butcher and an excellent source of fuse wire, "a cracker". Sorry if I was slightly distracted throughout the second half. I thought of something quite earthy for Dame Maggie to get involved with and wanted to jot it down. Theatrically, you understand."

"Hello. I know you asked me to conjure up a few 'fantasy scenarios' to have a go at, but I think I will have to admit defeat. I thought I was almost onto something when I concocted an erotic tableau concerning a window cleaner in desperate need to ring out his chamois leather. Then I realised I was basically plagiarising George Formby's 'When I'm Cleaning Windows' albeit with a sexual tinge. I tried again with a milkman and a malfunctioning float, but it descended into Benny Hill's 'Ernie'. Perhaps the next time you're round we can run through a few possibilities that don't have any novelty song associations. Like a conjurer and his assistant or something."

"Hello. Many thanks for the recent digital photograph. It was very nice. At first I was slightly confused by what I was looking at and considered the possibility that it was some variety of tropical fish. But then I cottoned on that it was a member. I shall attempt to reciprocate in kind. Though I may have to leave my cardigan on, as I've been plagued with a sticky thermostat for an unfeasibly long time."

"Hello. I had always been curious about the phrase 'at it like knives' and its etymological origins (I always thought knives were quite a docile cutlery), but I never thought I would be such a willing participant. That said, my back's been playing up like billy-o ever since you left to catch the night bus. I tried to apply a small portion of Deep Heat to the affected area and nearly slipped off the edge of the bath. In the end I settled myself with two paracetamol, an instant Horlicks and an old Columbo."

"Hello. I found that the upstairs windows were quite fogged after your most recent visit. I feel like this is some kind of achievement. My mother always claimed that a vigorous rub down with some vinegar sorted this and I thought I'd give it a try. Only I was clean out of vinegar, so I soaked the corner of a tea-towel in some soy sauce. The effects were marginal."

"Hello. Today's events put me in mind of a 'blue movie' I once encountered on a pleasure boat in Scarborough Harbour. We were expecting a short informational film about local tidal patterns. There was a mix-up with the tapes apparently. I tried desperately to distract my Auntie Val with some Pick N Mix as they rectified the situation, but she was completely transfixed. "I think we used to have that pelmet," she said when she snapped to. And then she was sick on a dentist."

"Hello. I must say, all this coitus must be having some kind of effect on my internal workings as I found myself quite priapistic while cycling towards Mornington Crescent in order to buy some swede. It was either brought about by thoughts of you or the new speed bumps they've erected outside the British Home Stores. They are there to control the flow, apparently. In my case they failed."

"Hello. I had a second dry sherry at lunch and I must have been quite giddy as I entered something describing itself as an 'Adult Shop' and invested in a marital aid. Or the bachelor equivalent. The gentleman behind the counter was quite instructive on its preferred method of use and where to insert the batteries. "It takes the square ones," he said. "Like you get in a smoke alarm." I told him mine were wired directly to the mains by the local Fire Brigade during a recent campaign and as a consequence didn't need an external power source. "Neither will you," he said, waggling his eyebrows in quite a lewd aspect. To be completely honest, his comment was rather lost on me. But I didn't say anything."

Dale Shaw's collection of made-up correspondence, Letters of Not, is available now from Amazon or via