Dear Saints, Devils, Hagiographers, Hagiolaters and Hagiologists:
Time for the Christmas letter and time for a change. Gone is our begging for
boodle and pleading for pounds (of the sterling sort); this a
confession-cum-explanation.
We need your help.
Until May last year the Club was run--reasonably well my ego likes to think--by
me. I lived just outside of London and once or twice a week would visit the
Arbour to sort out anything that needed sorting. And occasionally, although
it was a perpetual battle against the limited number of hours in the day, I
managed to put out a newsletter.
Then I changed job and moved to Paris (the one with the Eiffel Tower and the
wonderful wine). Obviously the Club could not be run from France. A local
Stepney member volunteered to help, but soon found Life taking him in other
directions and leaving no time for the Club.
I've been back when I can, but there's little I can do from such a distance.
It needs someone to check the mail, fill the orders, keep the files up to
date; the minor secretarial tasks that have kept the Club alive for the last
60 years.
Yes folks, we're 60. Perhaps it's time to consider retirement: after all
we've had a good run and have helped a lot of people.
Or perhaps, with everything that's planned for next year and selected
reprints from the Immortal Works already on the bookshelves here in Paris, we
should consider this an opportunity for regeneration.
It's up to you.
If you can spare two or three hours a week and want to help, write to me;
don't care who you are, where you are or which way you comb your hair. If you
can spare the time--not just this week or next week but every week--then please
volunteer and we'll work something out.
I have discussed this with Mrs Charteris, and she concurs that things cannot
continue as they are. The Saint Club is unique in the support and dedication
of its members as well as its philanthropy, but it simply can't continue
without help; e-mail me, ian.dickerson@ntlworld.com.
You may quite rightly say that this is one hell of a bum note to hit at this
time of year; it is and I apologize for striking it, but the decision has to
be made.
