You probably Google your name. I might too, if I were a Slighty Famous Person and so inclined. So if you do happen to be reading this, please know that the following written expression of my increasingly hard to repress desire to come at you with a box of something microscopic and flesh-eating isn't personal.

I'm sure you're a very nice person. That's what your columns are all about, after all. A nice, nice person and his quirky, quirky life. Although, maybe this terribly faux-naif gee-whiz thing you've got going on that's so persistantly irritating is simply a facade and you're really a domineering, wife-tormenting boor with seventy different ringtones on his mobile who actually cant stand the sight of his awfully, awfully winsome son. I think I'd really end up liking what you write if that turned out to be the case. Get pictured falling out of a cheap suburban nightclub at 5 am with one hand in a bag of coke and the other in a transvestite hooker in the next six months and I'll take it all back.

I apologise for this. I appreciate how perverse it is. I doubt that even the accumulated outrages of every single twentieth century dictator simultaneously performed upon my very doorstep one wet Tuesday night could move me to public action, but a single one of your cutesily self-deprecating sentences would happily see me in the middle of Trafalgar Square with a firm grip on the back of your neck, rubbing your forehead joyfully up and down the base of Nelson's Column until the water cannons arrive to prise me loose.

I've tried, God knows, to embrace your annoyingly forced short sentences and be the kind of person that could enjoy the wacky yet relatable adventures of the wide-eyed innocent without dry heaving. I remember too well the disgusted intakes of breath and averted glances that met my admission of last year that I didn't really like Douglas Adams and am not keen to recreate those unspoken but clearly present accusations that I if I feel like that then well, I might as well be out drowning kittens or rubbing myself against children on the swings. But I can't help it. I've shredded so many Guardian Weekend supplements in white-hot squinting rage that I have to have a public outet for this irrational ire.

I am one of the scant 0.000001% of bloggers who don't actually secretly yearn to be a writer. I don't think I could do any better. But still, I'd quite like you to be suddenly struck by something if not fatal then at least immediately silencing. And maybe slightly itchy. You understand, I'm sure. You're so very nice.

Love,

J