Dear Hilda,

I thought it important to notify you to a recent incident of some
importance.

Whilst on a day trip to Blackpool with my Grandmother last fortnight I
purchased a packet of Walker's Salt 'n' Vinger crisps from a street vendor.
The first thing to point out is that he was of nefarious character, the sort
of fellow who would laugh at a crippled duck alone in a pond of infinite
opportunity. He had a distinct glint in his eye, one of mischievous allure
and bottomless mockery. I did not like him and nor did my Grandmother.
Unperturbed by this however, I continued on my way, opening the packet and
momentarily checking the contents for I was wise to the ways of street
vendors and feared he had opened the packet, stealing a portion of the
crunchy sustenance and then glued it back together. Crafty little blighters
that they are.

It was in this packet that I found the infamous Aaron Funk!

Yet I tease dear Hilda, it was not so. Wishful thinking and a badly cooked
kipper supper must have taken it's toll for it was nothing but a mishapen
and burnt crisp, the darkened brown forms swirling together to form the
visage of the beloved. However, at that moment, on the wind, an aching
melancholy melody swept, the melody of Mr. Aaron Funk. This, naturally, I
found highly suspicious and so I have failed to eat the crisp. Instead I
keep it next to a computer with some beer and a cat, a cat that knows his
boundaries and treats said crisp with adoration.

In this regard I think it a good and worthy task to inspect these 'Walkers'.
Maybe Mr. Funk has channelled himself into delicious potato snacks, or maybe
the nefarious street vendors are attempting to contain and steal the secrets
of Aaron's magick - all I know is that this is a matter of upmost importance
to get to the bottom of, lest you let him get away, or worse yet, let him be
strucken by the forces that creep beneath the brandy seas.

Make it so Hilda, make it so.

Yours Sincerely,

Gilbert