I found this insensibly sad missive, folded tightly, on my hall floor this morning. Why this person, or their agent, decided that I was the person who needed to read this is not only beyond my ken, but it is freaking me the hell out. Lancashire is not even remotely near Cambridge.
I redacted the name and address. Don't want anyone accusing me of fostering further paranoia. I do hope the NHS mental health professionals, for all their resemblance to corrupt G-men on a mission, manage to help this poor person.
Again: why my house?
Pass the tin hat.
2 comments:
There is a special courier service that shuttles such missives around the country. It uses owls.
Seriously, mental illness is never romantic, is it.
Here you go.
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