All those months ago, when I sat down at my computer, googled Blogger, over-zealously cleared my throat (I had a terrible cold) and cracked my knuckles meaningfully, there was a greater purpose at work. You see, naturally one of the reasons I started My Thoughts Exactly was that I saw it as a means to feed my vanity via the adulation of the blogosphere public (and not, as the title might suggest, as a place to capture the teaming and seething boiling mass of complexity that is constantly battling it out in my cranium. That would be terribly indulgent. Just don't tell the advertising standards people).
And my most favourite favouritest bit (take note) is receiving fan mail (you may argue that what follows is neither adulation nor fan mail, but I will shush you, and possibly push you down the stairs before anyone hears you). Just before I hit the hiatus, I got this late birthday note from the now sadly departed Shane (remember him?). I don't mean he's dead by the way reader. I don’t think he’s dead.
So, anyway, not only fan mail, but a gift included too! (Take more notes would-be fan mailers.) The note also included some excitingly revealing small print. Oh, and if you are wondering about the gift, it's a model Milk Truck. We all know how much I like milk.
Hmmm. Perhaps I should clarify a little. It wasn't that much of a late birthday present. Certainly not on Shane's part. Rather, pre-hiatus I was feeling a trifle peckish, and was rooting through the vast collection of glossy takeaway menus which had been thoughtfully stacked by the front door, when in amongst them I came across a missed delivery slip from some 4 weeks earlier. And then, what was this?! Shoved down behind a box? An envelope, clearly addressed to me! It was my Christmas/Birthday card from Chris Cope.
"Crikey," I pondered, "this merits an investigation. What else might be stored here?"
Further inspection of the takeaway menus suggested they weren't actually thoughtfully stacked. No, more indiscriminately shoved together along with some now overdue bills. This is a breach of the informal Tufnell Park Towers’ rule: we get a multitude of stuff through our letterbox each day, and anything addressed to current occupants is either placed separately or, in extreme acts of generosity, transferred to the dining table, whilst the spew of threatening letters to previous occupants, Indian takeaway menus and cab-company cards is allowed to gather until someone scoops them all into the recycling bin. I tentatively broached the subject.
"How am I supposed to know? I'm not from this stupid country*, how would I know what your stupid mailman slips looks like?" Housemate Nicole countered.
"Well," I said thoughtfully, "The big golden crown, with Royal Mail written underneath it... you didn't think that was some sort of clue? The absence of any pictures of implausibly well presented pizza or bold lettered offers of two-for-one. This picture of a cheerful postman with '..Huw.. we have a parcel for you!' clearly written underneath it. And these: envelopes, addressed to me. I suppose that was all a bit too subtle?"
Tragically, I am not Australian, so I don't know how post works there. I don''t even know if they have post. Either way, I am now closely monitoring all post that lands on the doormat, so don't let any of this put you off, would-be fan mailers.
*Housemate Nicole has quite an impressive and ever-expanding list of things branded either stupid or boring. I have been taking count. The leaderboard stands thus:
-A map of the world I have on my wall
-Trying to save electricity
-Waiting for the washing machine to finish its cycle
-Being asked to persist from coming into my room and turning the light on and off in a strangely OCD reminiscent manner