Play tennis in the dark

The letter request:

We’d love you to craft a response to a complaint letter that a neighbour dropped around to everyone in our neighbourhood – about some new tennis court lights at the courts behind our houses. It’s really not a big deal. It’s a small tennis club run by volunteers. They’re running lessons at night and we reckon that ‘taking action’ and a petition is a little OTT. What we’d LOVE is a letter we could print and pop in everyone’s letterbox, just like he did. And the message is: Hey we’re all rich people living in one of the richest suburbs in Melbourne and we can probably take a deep breath and enjoy a bit of sports going on behind our houses. They also complain about the orange en-tout-cas dust from the courts.

 

The letter:

Dear neighbours,

We are hand delivering this to properties near the local tennis club. Like you, we received last week’s letter from our concerned neighbour and are truly excited by their initiative towards collective action. When groups of people come together amazing things can happen.

We recently heard from a friend of a friend in Toronto. Her neighbourhood has come together to sponsor a Syrian family to be resettled in Canada. A group of them chipped in what they could to reach $27K and – voila! – a Syrian family is on its way to having a positive, supported start in a new country.

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Too busy reading medical journals to care about fashion

The letter request:

I had a perplexing visit to an emergency department that was clearly ill equipped to deal with anything slightly resembling an emergency. 

 

The letter:

Dear Department of Health,

When I was growing up, our family GP wore brown slacks and a buttoned-up checkered shirt. My current GP favours lady slacks and pastel jumpers with floral embroidery. When I recently told a friend that my doctor was in her 70s, my boyfriend interrupted to say that she was actually around 50. Imagine that! Her clothes are so serious that I misjudged her age by two decades. Whether consciously or not, these professionals are projecting to the world: ‘I’m WAY TOO BUSY reading medical journals and boning up on rare conditions to care about fashion.’ As a result, I feel safe in their care.

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Situation: Anarchy

The letter request:

I need your assistance. I bought a lovely watch from David Jones for my gorgeous sister. She has small wrists so needed to get it adjusted. She went back to DJs but was told they don’t provide this free service anymore… It seems that they’ve taken a leaf out of the budget airlines school of Customer Service offerings with optional extras like a watch that fits your wrist fitting this category…

 

The letter:

Dear David Jones,

Thank heavens you’re not in law enforcement. Here’s what might happen if you were: you’d arrest a perp, slap a pair of cuffs on them, the perp’s wrists would be slightly on the dainty side, the cuffs would slip off, the perp would escape, you’d shrug your shoulders and walk away. Situation: Anarchy.

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Sex is a game for two. Sometimes three or more.

The letter request:

I’m looking for work and saw my dream job advertised but I noted applications had closed a few days earlier. I phoned the company and asked if they would accept a late application, explained my qualifications and gave a bit of history. They said they would like me to apply so I pulled an all-nighter and submitted the next day. Two hours later I received an email advising I had not been successful.

 

The letter:

Dear HR Manager,

Sex is a game for two. Sometimes three or more, sometimes one, but often two. When someone fakes an orgasm, it is generally for the benefit of the other person involved. There is no great enjoyment to be had from faking extreme pleasure; it’s just something one might occasionally do to make someone else feel better about their performance. Altruism, you might call it, for want of a better word.

Last week I applied for a job with your company. We spoke on the phone prior to my applying and you seemed enthused by my experience and credentials. You said, ‘Yes! Please Apply! Just make sure your application is in by 5pm tomorrow.’ I spent many hours writing, gave considered thought to each of your selection criteria, sought consult from friends, checked in with potential referees and finessed my resume. I spent a few hours daydreaming the logistics which in this case involved imagining myself resigning from my current role, imagining myself moving across the country to take up the position, imagining the impact on my relationship – you get the drift. I was quite excited.

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Shit, no, not my heart, my wallet

The letter request:

Ok this is the deal. I went to replace my stolen drivers licence today and it’s free of charge if you can produce a police report. So I took my San Francisco police report only to be told they only accept Western Australia police reports. Accordingly they sent me down to the local cop shop to lodge a report of my licence having been stolen in San Fran – 13,000 km away…

 

The letter:

Dear Western Australian Department of Transport,

I left my heart in San Francisco. Shit, no, not my heart, my wallet. I left my wallet in San Francisco. I left some brain cells at Burning Man and it’s rendered me a little confused.  You, however, seem incredibly confused. Someone less polite might call you stupid.

When my wallet was stolen on the other side of the world I did what most travelers do and reported it to the police. Not because I thought they’d track down the sticky-fingered pickpocket as they spree-ed Vegas with my credit card, but because I figured it would be useful to have a police report to help me get the necessary replacement cards once back in Australia; in particular, my drivers licence, which I need for work.

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The warm glow of knowing you’ve helped chickens

The letter request:

I want to write a letter to my local IGA to ask them to get more free range eggs in. Sometimes they have them but often they don’t and I’m left having a half an hour debate with myself in front of the egg section whether or not to buy the cage ones on a Saturday morning when I really want to go home and make eggs benedict.

 

The letter:

Dear IGA,

It gets hot in Death Valley National Park, Nevada, USA. Damn hot. So hot you could fry an egg and someone tried this recently. They posted a video of the experiment on You Tube and it went viral, leading to a spout of copycat egg-fryers testing the theory around the National Park until the rangers sent out a loud plea, Dudes! No More Frying Eggs in the Park! It’s getting MESSY!

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A whale could destroy a starfish in a millisecond

The letter request:

Five friends, from four different cities around the world, organise a NYE reunion at the zoo. We part with a sizeable sum for a prime fireworks position in the ‘gold’ area to maximise fun, view, and minimise toilet and drinks queue time. But on arrival we were greeted by a long bar queue that didn’t seem to be moving. The first 40 minutes, and regular intervals thereafter, were spent in the queue rather than enjoying views with friends. 

 

The letter:

Dear Zoo,

Colours do not always represent status. In grade three I was in a maths groups called the Blue Whales and my friend was in a maths group called the Red Starfish. Because both blue and red are top-shelf colours with no inherent value attached to them – and because whales and starfish each have their own wonderful and unique attributes – my friend and I didn’t know which group was the top group and therefore which one of us was smarter at maths. So I get it, colours do not always represent status. Except when they do.

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The only way is up

The letter request:

Donna, my best friend’s wife, always says something nasty/creepy/passive aggressive to me every time we socialise. Recently, at a friend’s party, she cornered me and started talking about golf – about going on vacation to play golf, about how cute her little girls are when the play golf, about how her little boys fight when they play golf… She has three subjects she talks about: doctor things (she’s a physician), at which time she uses really big terms so if you’re not a doctor you won’t understand what she’s talking about; golf, which bores me to tears; and her kids. So I came up with a plan (big mistake). I purchased a couple of books on cocktail party conversation, and a magazine subscription called Mental Floss, and suggested we meet to devise a plan where we could talk about things worldly and not about golf (did I mention I hate golf?) as a way to connect with each other on a more personal/friendly level. I sent her a text message. No response.

 

The letter:

Dear Donna,

So the other day I was reading an article in the New York Times that made me pause and think. It was about conversation and one particular sentiment leapt out at me: ‘In conversation, we are called upon to see things from another’s point of view.’

If this is indeed true, this is how I see your world after a conversation with you: You’re a committed medical practitioner who enjoys playing golf and adores her children more than life itself. True? Win!

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An extra fifty bums

The letter request:

My local hotel has no designated or obvious dance floor. They have far too many wall-mounted televisions playing sport, a smaller room with two pool tables and a juke box and one TV connected to that playing music video clips but no space to dance near the juke box. I would recommend they move their pool tables into the bigger room and create some floor space near the jukebox for dancing in the smaller room where they should also move their lounges. In the past, this place has been renowned for its great outside dance area, good bands and music. Keep the dream alive baby!

 

The letter:

To the Publican at the Spinifex Hotel,

You can’t deny that supermarket aisles are the true unsung heroes of the supermarket. People rave about variety and price but where would they be without those quiet and unassuming patches of linoleum between the shelves? Without aisles, how would they see the produce? How would they access their favourite box of muesli bars and their preferred brand of cheese?

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Willy Wonka was an arsehole

The letter request:

I like my chocolate and I like having a chocolatier in my hood. Despite it’s awfully hip vibe, I’ve enjoyed meeting friends there for treats. I’ve enjoyed my interactions with the perky staff, love looking through the little window at chocolate preparations. But then one busy Saturday, as I was paying for my bill something very disturbing happened. A woman, clearly new to the job, offered to split my bill. When she enquired as to the process for doing this she was admonished in a humiliating, over-the top-way. I was humiliated, for the Monsieur, and in pain for the cashier. I understand stress, I understand frustration with people not doing what you expect, but if the incident made me too sick to return with my custom, how must she have felt? And now I’m sad for everyone. Her, him and my chocolate-deprived self.

 

The letter:

Dear Monsieur Chocolat,

Willy Wonka was an arsehole. A creative genius, yes, but an arsehole nonetheless. He took a group of kids on a tour of his chocolate factory and then treated them as collateral damage when they fell into vats or exploded.

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