I’m not a big fan of mail — in my experience it’s either bad news or a bill — and I won’t open a letter in my flat, it’s a rule. I open it outside, I read it outside, and then I enter my home.
Fortunately, I rarely get post.
Last night I got in and noticed mail for me on the table downstairs — I did my usual scrutinising the envelope to determine ‘from whom’ and I spotted That funeral home’s head office address. The pit in my empty stomach opened and I fell down — my skin quickly chilled clammy — my heart was a’flutter, pounding agitated in my chest.
I politely wondered: ‘What the fuck they want?’
Well, I figured to myself that this was a definite letter to open right then and there — I’d find out for what additional they blamed me before I ascended the stairs.
It was my damn P60 with an accompanying letter saying I could use the enclosed to apply for benefits.
Now, I do realise that there’s a very strong possibility that my P60 was sent in perfectly good faith, but I can’t help but think that they could’ve and should’ve sent it a little while ago. It has been how long since it was issued? And to be honest, seeing their name brought back the dread — it really does feel a little like they want me to remember them forever and ever, maybe for their efficiency, maybe for their care, etc., and never let go.
Well, I do remember that funeral home — I remember them pretty well, thank you very much, what with their actions being the final spasms of a dying man and all — I don’t need a reminder.
It’s entirely possible that I overreacted a touch last night — it was only my P60 after all — but, well, one does react as they shall react, especially when trained.