Friday, February 10, 2017

I Solve A Mystery.

The envelope is good quality, stamped  and has been beautifully written in a hand I half-recognise. I'm not familiar with the post-mark.

The street-name is similar to mine and the postcode is incomplete. It’s addressed to a Mr. D. Surname.

This feels familiar. I look-up the street-name on the envelope – it doesn’t exist.

“Bugger this” I think and open the envelope, aware that I am committing some sort of ‘thing’.

Inside is the flimsiest of of those 'self-published' greetings cards, with feasibly the worst Warhol-wannabe bullshit print upon it. The publisher has plastered “Happy Birthday Day Danny” in the most basic font across the worst area of the most dreadful attempt of ‘art’ I have ever seen.

Within is the handwritten message –

“Wishing you the best

With love

Dad & Fleur

Xxx

(Fluer’s artwork) “

I study this for a while. We’ve all received cards like these – cack-handed attempts at artistry from imbeciles sponsored by partners/parents who are blind to their every failing.

I’ve even sent them. Good quality Christmas cards illustrated by my seven-year old son featuring a young, beardless Santa brandishing a burning golden sword toward a supplicant bearded older Santa discarding his gloves in defeat into a pile of Christmas debris. Another illustrated by my ten-year old daughter involving anime-style reindeer and dolphins because why not.

Obviously they were actually really good. I wouldn’t have sent them to people otherwise. This is something different.

I look at this card. “From Dad & Fleur”. The ‘Dad’ in question is obviously proud of ‘Fleur’ and the recipient is not a child. ‘Fleur’ is not the recipient’s mother. Or any other direct family member.

I look at it some more. And I’m not sure what the story is.

But I do know that if I had a sister so uninterested in my life she couldn’t be chewed to remember the family surname and who thought a cheque was a genuine gift I’d not be happy.

And if I had a father so dreadfully passive-aggressive he would send me the tablature for the worst songs on earth and then also send appallingly-cheaply made examples of his new wife’s lack of artistic talent to an address he couldn’t even be bothered to verify then -

I’d have disappeared off the face of the earth as well.



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