Iain Hollingshead - Imagine My Surprise...: Unpublished Letters to the Daily Telegraph

Imagine My Surprise... SIR As well as several helpings of pudding, I tucked into the third instalment of unpublished letters over Christmas. Yet again, it was witty, insightful and, in many cases, rude. I found it best served with the fire on, the children in bed, and a dram or four of single malt. I look forward to volume four. Andrew Holgate Woodley, Cheshire SIR Might I suggest that in future editions you add an index so that the more conceited among us can rapidly see if we have made the book? Is there anything more humiliating than to discover that not only have ones efforts failed to make publication in the newspaper, but they cannot even make the book of rejects? Robert Lightband Dundee SIR It seems rather strange that, with Europe in crisis and the Greek people relying on outside humanitarian aid, anyone would enter into correspondence about lavender-scented bath towels. M.J. M.J.

Annett Burstow, Surrey

Last Christmas, when we published I Rest My Case..., the third in the series of unpublished letters to The Daily Telegraph, some people expressed their concerns about the seeming finality of the books title. Could an eventful year in which London burned, the Middle East revolted, Prince William wed, bin Laden died, Nick Clegg cried and Silvio Berlusconi bunga bunga-ed be our readers last hurrah? Fie! Our wonderful readers, choleric, trenchant, wise, witty, waggish, and often downright outrageous, are made of sterner stuff. Weve been fortunate in that this year has been no less eventful than last. You might have noticed the Olympics, the Diamond Jubilee, the Eurozone crisis, the endless rain... 2012 has been the year of Andy Murray and Jessica Ennis, Rebekah Brooks and Abu Qatada, hosepipe bans and droughts, pasties and jerry cans. Dave chillaxed.

Boris bumbled his way to another victory. And Pippa Middleton maintained her place in the heart of the picture editor, if not those of the readers. Great events alone do not, of course, make for great correspondence. Only Telegraph letter-writers are capable of merging the weighty, the whimsical and the quotidian to such hilarious advantage. The water companies impose a hosepipe ban; a reader wonders if he can irrigate his lawn by staging a domestic riot and drawing fire from the polices water cannon. England are knocked out in the quarter-finals of Euro 2012; a reader wonders if the teams copious tattoos are sapping the strength of their muscles underneath.

The chief executive of RBS rejects his enormous bonus; a reader writes to say that he doesnt mind him keeping it, as long as he spends 1,000 replacing his disgracefully cheapo pair of hunting boots. If you look for stereotypical Telegraph letter-writers in these pages, you will no doubt find them. One correspondent admits that, if there were a political party for the Disgusted of Tunbridge Wells, she would be one of the first to join. Recurring themes emerge year on year, whether complaints about Andy Murrays facial hair (Robert Jay QC is a new entry in this category this year), the proliferation of retired colonels on the letters page, the crossword, the Americanisation of the English language, the BBC, the EU, wind farms or the sinking sartorial standards among the population at large. All are delivered with customary aplomb, not to mention a deliciously, devilishly erudite turn of phrase. More surprising, perhaps, is the sheer range of correspondents, their remarkable generosity of spirit and their continual ability to surprise and delight.

This year features everyone from a 13-year-old boy pointing out ornithological mistakes in the television adaptation of Birdsong to a sexagenarian trying to keep his wife away from the alarming news that 67 per cent of women over the age of 80 are sexually active. One of my favourites comes from a pensioner in North Yorkshire who started watching the televised Jubilee concert in no mood for pop artists and, several bottles of wine later, ended up dancing the night away in a modernistic style with his wife. I hope you enjoy spending time with our readers as much as I do every year, following the conversation as it echoes, sometimes answered, sometimes ignored, from Piddletrenthide in Dorset to Durness-by-Lairg in Sutherland, via Llanfairfechan in Conwy, Goodworth Clatford in Hampshire and, occasionally, Bessines-sur-Gartempe in Limousin, France. To all our correspondents, my grateful thanks as well as to Christopher Howse, the letters editor; Matt Pritchett; Caroline Buckland; and everyone at Aurum. I am particularly grateful to Guy Stagg, who did a huge amount of invaluable work sifting through the letters as they came in and rescuing the unpublished gems from the slush pile. Iain Hollingshead London SW1 August 2012

FROM SHEFFIELD, WITH LOVE SIR At the risk of making a sweeping generalisation, why are men so inept when it comes to buying gifts? On Christmas morning my husband presented me with a set of stainless steel cutlery, a not entirely welcome addition to the five sets I already possess. Iain Hollingshead London SW1 August 2012 FROM SHEFFIELD, WITH LOVE SIR At the risk of making a sweeping generalisation, why are men so inept when it comes to buying gifts? On Christmas morning my husband presented me with a set of stainless steel cutlery, a not entirely welcome addition to the five sets I already possess.

While this latest attempt at a romantic gesture is a slight improvement on the exercise machine debacle of a few birthdays ago (for which he is still paying), as long as there are men like my husband around, the burghers of Sheffield can rest easily in their beds. Most galling of all, the kitchenware shop is directly opposite my favourite jewellers. Louise Thistlethwaite Askam-in-Furness, Cumbria FOLIE A QUATRE SIR Your letter-writer admits that he and his partner often talk in a faux Lancashire accent and asks, Is this lunacy common? Not only do my husband and I speak to each other in accents ranging from Valleys Welsh (hes English, Im Scottish) to broad Yorkshire, we also have a coded language which only we understand, and we frequently dance around the kitchen in our underwear. We are of the firm belief that if we were ever to be observed while home alone, we would promptly be thrown in the loony bin. S. Frances King Ashford, Kent SIR This morning, in time-honoured tradition, I woke my husband with a cup of tea and a pinch and a punch on the first day of the month, and no returns, followed by a sock in the eye for being so sly.

I wonder: do the kids of today continue to do this? Unlikely. Janet Turner Frome, Somerset SIR If one of us is having a lie-in, the signal that we are awake is given with two sharp coughs so that a tea-tray can be delivered. I thought we were a bit quirky until we stayed with friends this weekend and discovered that they have a similar system only they send a text message. Shirley Batten-Smith Watford, Hertfordshire TILL HOUSEWORK US DO PART SIR A survey reported last week found that men are more content the more housework they do. This week it was reported that men are more likely to divorce the more housework they do. Stephen Sharp Netherwitton, Northumberland SIR Is there, I wonder, any significance as to which side of the matrimonial bed one occupies? A short survey carried out recently by me can find none, other than to confirm that once the decision is made it becomes fixed for the duration. Tom Whitmore Southwell, Nottinghamshire SIR My advice for a man looking for a wife who will love him unconditionally: claim that you are infertile and have poor career prospects.

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