Dear Little Jo.
It was so nice to see you last weekend. My how you grow. You are going to be taller than both your mums. You had an audition in Toorak Road for a television show. It sounded interesting but I did not really understand it, although I know Wayne Hope and Robyn Butler are very talented, and they have something to do with it.
I know you love your Uncle R very much, and why not. What a wonderful barbeque he cooked for us and your mums. Thanks for bringing the wine and dessert from some posh place in South Yarra.
Who knows if your acting will become a career or just a pastime. You are pretty smart too, so you could really do anything you want.
We clashed for the third time over a simple matter of words. I didn't think about how to elaborate it at the time, but I have now.
Little Jo, say you become a very successful actor. You are performing in London's West End. At the after party on opening night, you give an audience. Where were you born Little Jo? In Australia at a place called Highton. Can you spell that for us? Haitch, I, G, Haitch, T, O, N.
The room goes silent, then whispers can be heard. Did she really say haitch? Oh dear. Well she is from Australia. She came from a humble background, perhaps Irish.
This silly old pompous and ever so correct pedantic uncle simply won't have it and I will do battle with her again over her pronunciation of aitch to save her from herself.
Ok, don't take this too seriously, but I really wish she would not say haitch.
The H Wars.