... is writing a letter that is going to be sent to Chris Carey, Michael Crawford, Simon Hornblower, Michael Silk, Mary Beard, Pat Easterling, Robin Lane Fox, Oliver Taplin, Paul Cartledge, Simon Goldhill, and a few Sirs and Dames for good measure, among a whole host of 200 odd others.
For those of you not in the know, I just rattled off possibly the most intimidating collection of classics professors ever assembled in history. And I'm asking them to give me 30 seconds of their precious, precious time to bother to read my letter, which asks them to give a good 3 hours of their time, not including travel, to come watch our pithy production of 2 plays from greek tragedy, which they will know infintely more about than any of the people who have been involved in the production, and will most likely involve Simon Goldhill mouthing the Greek to the actors by rote for the entire performance, despite the fact we're doing ours in translation anyway.
And this letter is coming from the boy who already has a black mark against his name, for turning up to an oxbridge sixth form classics day without a booking, next to one girl in fishnet tights, and another with a hipflask sticking out of her front pocket. When my academic career plummets just as surely as Icarus did to his aquatic demise, and UCL reissue my degree at a 3rd, if they even grant me that high a mark after a mysterious 'adminstrative error', pity me and know that this way lay madness, pain, and dooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooom. I shall print the letter on purple paper just to leave no possible margin for error. And if anybody knows where I can get gold embossed envelopes it would be greatly appreciated.