SAINT CLUB Christmas Letter 1987

My treasured little wimps, wallies, and assorted worms:

If you ever needed any reminder of the fast-approaching horrors of Christmas, you have been getting it for some time now with the sickening thud of catalogs and other junk mail plopping through your letter boxes, starting this year it seems to me even earlier than usual. The only late arrival will be this letter, for which 1 must take all the blame. I would personally like to blame it on a rather long and dreary bout of ill-health, a penalty of old age and good living, of which I will spare you the unpleasant details, since you probably aren't believing me anyhow.

Some of us have not been so lucky. I am thinking principally of our late Hon Sec, Norman Turner. Some of you will already have heard of his death earlier this year, not so long after the premature demise of his beloved wife Dorothy, and perhaps partly because of his grief over her loss.

Norman, who actually was a retired senior officer of the CID, was so generously forgiving of the Saint's countless dirty digs at the police that he consented several years ago to take on the really onerous chore of Hon Sec, a job which he performed not just efficiently but with genuine dedication. Every member of the Club is in debt to him for the services he gave and was always ready to give. And those who like myself were privileged to know him still more personally will always mourn the departure of a fine person and a deeply valued friend.

He will not be an easy act to follow; but this letter will formally introduce you to his aspiring successors, Mr & Mrs Arnold, who have jointly and recklessly volunteered to carry on the good work. Pat Arnold, of course, is already known to many of you for her active interest in the Arbour Youth Centre. We all welcome them and wish them the very best of luck.

Herewith they are sending you their greetings, and their first Christmas report. Most of the old merchandise will still be available, but with at least one change to which I must confess myself: the superannuated mug shots of my unfortunate kisser can still be had, with autograph, while stocks last, but thereafter can only be offered, still with hand-drawn Saint figure, but otherwise personalized only with a hieroglyph supposedly representing my initials. Since I passed the age of 80, my handwriting has been steadily deteriorating from arthritis, until now my signature is starting to look like a rather clumsy forgery.

And so, my little monsters, with what little goodwill I can spare. I send you my dubious blessings and the free sample that follows: