Dear Riza
Armstrong saw how I started my last letter. He gave me an hour long lecture on courting techniques. I think my brain melted halfway through. Maes has been insufferable as well. He's convinced I need to get myself a girlfriend and won't take no for an answer. How did I end up stuck in a desert with these lunatics, Riza?
Yes I remember waking up on the stairs that morning. You got so worried and then once you realised I was fine you gave me such a tongue lashing. I think you called me a "bumbling buffoon" and a "weasel faced idiot" among other things. I never realised how creative you could be with your insults until then. And I'd like to point out I'm not weasel faced. I'm much better looking than a weasel and you know it!
I am writing more than once every three weeks to the girls, I promise. But the mail run here is slow, so it just seems longer. I've written again and told them to stop panicking over me. Apparently my lady killer skills haven't dulled in the slightest if they only need three weeks to convince themselves I'm laying in a hospital bed somewhere.
If you really need someone nagging you for candy floss to enjoy the fair, I'm sure that kid down the street – was he called Daniel? – would be happy to oblige. Do you remember when he ate so much he threw up? Have fun at the fete Riza. For both of us.
I've got to go now. I have a patrol.
Roy
P.S. This is Maes. Roy really likes you!
