Friday, May 10, 2013
INTERIOR. DAY. THE BOARDROOM OF FUCKING WITH TIRED DAD INC.
THE CEO IS SAT BEHIND AN ENORMOUS MAHAGONY DESK AND LIGHTS A HUGE CUBAN CIGAR WITH A BURNING FIFTY-POUND NOTE. ALSO PRESENT IS A NERVOUS-LOOKING EXECUTIVE.
CEO: [Pausing to sip from a crystal glass filled with the tears of orphaned children] Report on the progress of Operation Dan.
Exec: Um. Yes. Ok. Phase One has been successful. He wrote a blog post about it and everything. Not that anyone reads blogs anymore but…
CEO: ENOUGH! I will not tolerate negativity in this organization. So?
Exec: Right. Yes. So. We’ve commenced Phase 2. We should see results soon. Sir?
Exec: Isn’t this all a bit trivial? Who is this guy anyway? Who cares?
CEO: It’s that sort of talk that’ll see you back in the Department For Making Sure USB Sticks Never Go In The Right Way Round On First Attempt.
Exec: Dear God no. Anything else, sir?
CEO: [Rising and undoing his trousers] You KNOW what else.
FADE TO BLACK.
Somebody is definitely fucking with me. [This is me now]
Regular readers will remember my receiving some odd post, before all this ‘going missing’ nonsense.
I receive yet another envelope addressed to Daniel Surname but the ‘surname’ itself is different from the last one. Everything else – including the postcode – is bang-on.
This is far too co-incidental. I am hugely uneasy as I open it, which I know I’m not supposed to do. The postmark is familiar to me, a place near where I used to live in the South-West of England.
‘HAPPY BIRTHDAY BROTHER.’ Says the card.
I scratch my head. It’s nowhere near my birthday.
In biro within the card:
“Have a really fab 40th Dan! With lots and lots of love your Big Sis Surname.”
I'm not named Dan and I'm not 40 years old. I’ve lived here years. I know the man who lived here before me, who also lived here years and is not named Dan. Surely a man’s SISTER would know his current address? What is this?
Enclosed is a cheque for £20.00 made out to Daniel Surname signed by ‘Big Sis Different Surname’
This is outrageous. Not only are strangers sending me musical details of GENUINELY the worst songs on earth but they are also tormenting me with Twenty Pound cheques I cannot possibly cash.
This is all making me deeply uneasy. If I didn’t know any better I would think someone were doing it on purpose.