27/03/2013 11:28 GMT | Updated 27/05/2013 06:12 BST

Kathleen Is a Fat-Calfed WHORE

My dears I take pen in hand to bring to you a story of horror and woe so deep so incalculable that I'm all of a tremble.

It can best be summed up thus, MY LIFE IS OVER.

Piers my one true love, my Lord of Loveland, my bastion of succour, my dream boat of the Cuddling Line, has been bedazzled and enchanted by the whore of Babylon. His assistant, Kathleen.

It was Sunday last as I was viewing the spectacle of dear Boris being horribly harangued by that Eddie Mair, though the serving hatch, that my world as I knew it shattered.

He came in to the kitchen, sat at the banquette asked where his fungal foot-cream was then said the words that will remain burned into my heart FOREVER.

He said. "Kathleen thinks she's pregnant so I'm off"

Then pausing only to attach our two-berth caravan, The Happy Wanderer, to the Range Rover he was gone.

This is entirely that she witches fault. She has ensnared, she has charmed, she has purloined my HUSBAND.

I will not deny my own culpability.

The ways of the front bottom have always been and will remain a mystery to me. But my union with Piers has always been of the cerebral kind. I often feel that we are modelled on the traditional form of marital union. Like the Thatchers, Dennis and Maggie or their American friends The Reagans, Sid and Nancy.

I'm not like the young women of today who are tattooed this and pierced that and speak of the ways of love with a familiarity and confidence, which I find frankly terrifying in all its graphic complexity.

It's pre-marital cunnilingus right left and centre these days and it's wrong.

No it is as a mother and devoted wife that I view the future as a single parent with much trepidation. I cannot believe that, that northern hell-whore thinks nothing of our little ones. Our son Tarquin has been at my side throughout and I suppose Amelia has tried to help a bit. I could have done without Tarquin's friend Eileen wafting incense and babbling mantra's but fumigating our home after she left , has at least given me a distraction from my torment.

I do not blame Piers, dears and I hope you don't either.

And I'll tell you for why.

Men are but as slaves to their urges and baser desires and so I fully understand that he was unable to contain himself once SHE had a firm grasp of his primordial desires.

BUT A PREGNANCY? Fortunately this has proved to be nothing more than a ruse as a contact in the local chemist has tipped me the wink on that one. I name no names but let us leave it with the news that a prescription has very recently been filled of the contraception description.

I send my last word to Piers.

"Pumpkin patch I plead with you to return. I forgive you and know that we have a bond, which is stronger than mere bedroom fumblings. I blame myself and I blame the hell whore but I do not blame you. Also according to my contact in the chemist you will need to dip your peeny-weeny in disinfectant, as I gather Kathleen has pubic lice.

All my love from your devoted, kind hearted and FORGIVING wife, Abishag Mountable"