Trev (obviously not my real name), Sunbury-on-Thames

P.S. If you happen to know where I could get my hands on whatever you suggest, that’d be helpful too. My regular guy has his A-levels this month and I don’t think he’ll be up for sourcing anything too exotic.

TAKE ME TO THE PILOT

Dear Fake Trev, don’t do it, man. That’s the first thing. To clarify, I’m talking about the drugs organic and chemical assistance, not the astral travel, because if that’s what floats your boat, I say have at it and don’t forget to write.

The second thing is, even though I’m not as old as the paper said, I’m old enough to have lost contact with anyone who could legitimately call themselves a drug dealer procurer of organic and chemical produce about fifteen years ago. I don’t touch the stuff, and in fact I’m pretty sure I wouldn’t even know what constitutes ‘stuff’ these days. But listen, if you’re looking for some juice to get you to the astral plane, I can highly recommend giving beer a try. It’s legal, it tastes good, and you never have to worry where your next one’s coming from. I haven’t ever done any intentional astral travelling, but I’ve definitely had a few out-of-body experiences with a skinful of Stella.

Cheers, mate, and if we ever end up on the same astral plane together, let’s have a drink.

Danny Mulberry

P.S. Good luck with that big job, because Cliffy’s right, laying foundations definitely requires a clear head. And on second thoughts, maybe I should also say stick to the weekends for any beer-assisted astral travelling, because I know first-hand that hangovers and building sites are a well dodgy combination.

P.P.S. Tell your girlfriend the word’s not crackpot, it’s ‘free thinker’. That’s worked wonders for me in the past. You might also want to tell her there are two s’s in assistance, so who’s laughing now?

NEIL

Dear Danny Mulberry, I’ve never really been one to trust my own instincts (I have my reasons), but when I read that article in the Double, something told me you were the right person to ask for help.

I’m a forty-five-year-old confirmed bachelor (not exactly by choice) and until now I never believed in that saying ‘when you know, you know’, but three months ago, Pam moved into my apartment building and soon as I saw her, I knew. We bonded straight away over her Great Dane, Bruno. So much so that within an hour of meeting, she trusted me enough to knock on my door and ask if I’d dog-sit.

Bruno and I got on quite well after a bit of a dodgy start, and I’d been thinking about getting a new sofa anyhow. When Pam got back, at two in the morning, she said she’d never seen Bruno take to anyone like he took to me, and how did I feel about going on regular walks with him. Well, of course I said yes, even though I actually thought she’d meant the three of us, and I didn’t realise she meant at 5 a.m.