And what rough beast, its hour come round at last, slouches back into view? It’s me. I’m tentatively back.
Now wait a minute. Don’t go pointing the finger in this direction. You’re the ones to blame. For bringing me back, that is.
Despite me disappearing deeper than the caves of Tora Bora, keeping quieter than the Count of Montecristo and remaining as inactive as your local political representative – you kept dropping by this blog. And some of you have been sneakily getting in touch by other means. Thank you.
But why today? Why now?
It’s the postman who’s really to blame. He just fits this Friday’s topic set by the Loose Bloggers Consortium – Wrong Fit.
It was like this. I came home today, stood at the front door, feeling slightly off balance as I delved for my key.
(No – don’t go jumping to conclusions. No drink had been taken.)
I opened the door and stepped over the pile of letters inside. I carried them in to the kitchen. They were mostly for the previous occupants who seem determined not to redirect their mail. (Odd, considering some of the stuff they’re getting in the post and how poorly sealed the envelopes. I’d definitely not want other people handling them if I were them.)
I was a bit disappointed because I’d been expecting two CDs – Franz Ferdinand: Right Thoughts Right Words Right Action – and Belle and Sebastian: The Third Eye Centre (you may remember them from that film I backed.) I ordered the CDs to celebrate finally getting paid for some of the work I’d been cramming in. But still no sign of them.
Then I spotted one of those familiar red “Something For You” notes left by the postman.* The message said the item could not be delivered because it was too large to go through the letter box. It was the wrong fit. The postman had written on the paper slip: “Package under mat.”
I paused. Can that mean what I think – no, what I fear it means?
Package under mat. Under the mat at the front door? The mat that everyone stands on when entering the house?
I went back outside. Lifted the mat – the mat I’d just been shuffling about on as I hoked around for my key.
Remember the bit about feeling a little off balance? That was because of the package hidden underneath my feet. (I’d clearly be an easy booby trap target with my powers of observation.)
So the question is this: Why on earth would any adult think it was a good idea to conceal a breakable parcel where people will stand on it? Especially given the plethora of convenient alternatives hiding places available.
Answers in the comments please. And don’t all go for stupidity. I’ve come up with that one myself.
*Yes, I did use the term postman rather than something more gender neutral. Well… would any woman do that?