Stories.

There are an awful lot of plasma-screens in my new office. I squint at them.

New Boss: Do you need glasses?

I tell him a story.

Me: I tore the corneas of both my eyes.

NB: Jesus!

Me: I know.

NB: What happened?

Me: I wore contact lenses for years, but my eyes are a funny shape. ‘Pointy’, according to my optician. Don’t know how many years he spent at Optician School to come up with that diagnosis…

I wait for the expected snort. I’ve told this story a hundred times.

NB: *snort*

Me: So I couldn’t wear the soft ones. Too big, they’d just fall out because of my ‘pointy eyes’ [I make the ‘inverted commas’ gesture with my fingers] So I had to wear the gas permeable ones. They’re really small. And they’re like glass. I wore the same pair for eight years. My eyes changed shape, the contact lenses didn’t and my eyes got all fucked-up.

NB: Fuck mate. Sorry.

Me: *shrug*

It’s a true story. What I never mention is that it was years ago and my eyes healed without any trouble and that I could very easily wear lenses or glasses now but can’t be bothered. I can see two foot in front of me – beyond that I really don’t care what’s happening anyway.

But that wouldn’t be such a good story. Stories are important things. And words are powerful things.

And besides – it’s just a small story.

Like this one.

A Mystery #1

I receive some post. This in itself is not mysterious. To be honest, it’s happened quite a few times. But this is not addressed to me by name. Again, something which is far from odd, but this is hand-written.

A hand-written envelope is not the method of choice for debt-collectors or direct-marketing companies. As such, I am intrigued. But is there not some sort of law involving opening Her Majesty’s Royal Mail? Is it not an actual criminal offence to open mail not addressed to oneself by name?

I think about this as I open the envelope addressed to Named Individual Who Is Not Myself, which is not my name. The Queen can fuck off. The Royal Mail was going to be renamed Consignia at one point anyway so she can’t be that bloody bothered.

‘Daniel’ is the Christian name of the person this envelope should actually reach.

I find four photocopied sheets of paper, with no explanatory covering letter. One is of ‘Guitar Chords Used In This Book’. Do they call it tablature? I neither know nor care.

Sheet two is the lyrics and chords for the abysmal song ‘Top Of The World’ that I had to sing at each morning’s assembly at the frightful Church of England First School I attended. It brings to mind my cold bottom upon the unforgivably chilly assembly hall floor.

I am now feeling uneasy.

The third sheet is similar, but this time refers to Mull of ‘fucking’ Kintyre.

I feel less uneasy.

The fourth contains the lyrics for I Have a Dream by ABBA. Someone has hand-written the chords next to the first three lines of the lyrics but has then gotten bored or lost the will to live and stopped.

There is nothing else. I have lived in this house for nearly three years. Would someone sending such obviously-expected information not be aware that the recipient had moved house some time ago? I know the previous inhabitants and owner quite well. None of them are named Daniel.

Or is someone FUCKING WITH ME?

Next: Someone is DEFINITELY fucking with me.