I hate to be the bearer of bad news but somebody sent a letter to my house without paying the correct postage. They put a stamp suitable for a letter on what was actually a large letter. (I know, I know.) Now I have to pay a £1.50 fee to get it delivered. It might not even be for me. It might just be junk mail. It could be a catalogue from Smyths Toy Superstore or something else I don’t really need. No, that’s crazy talk. They would put the right postage on.
I’m being paranoid. t could be something good. It might be a reasonably thin book or a card with googly eyes on it or a Curly Wurly.
It’s the not knowing that hurts. The waiting. I won’t find out until Wednesday. And now I have dragged you into it all. Sorry, pals. My thoughts and prayers are with you at this difficult time.
Yeah, now that you ask, it has been a quiet morning.
I made my usual mistake of trying to fill a pitta bread with the bits of salad that have been hanging around the fridge for a fortnight. It was always going to be rubbish, but I really hit new lows today. I feel unwell.
I have to at least consider the fact that the stomach ache and ennui brought on from the salad I made from (seemingly edible bits of) coriander (that I salvaged from a bag that went out of date two weeks ago) and a (worryingly bitter) stalk of celery could be contributing to my dark feelings about the undelivered post. I mean, it’s just a letter innit.