Woe. Is. Me.
One beer and one trauma can render me a rain-sodden, snot-faced wreck of a foetal positioned creature. Red biro scrawled eyes. Eyes wide with despair, staring imploringly into the drizzle. Pathetic.
The eyes ceased staring and began weeping, however, when it was discovered that not only mere objects and the outward trappings of modern society can be thieved, but also ART and TRUTH and SENTIMENT.
Sealed within a first class stamped envelope lay a piece of me, destined for more wild, northern, homely parts. This piece of me was in the physical form of a moustached sea-faring man with a fish for a hat. Above this fish was Charlie Chaplin with a fishing rod, and below the nautical-striped top of the fish-wearing man was a character in a dinner jacket about to dive into a river. A pale blue silver star was in the farthest corner, and turquoise swirls were painted along one side of the fishy figure. The words 'full fathom five thy father lies' were inkily etched amongst these sea-like swirls. This vision opened up to an illustrated message of ardent anniversarial happiness, signed with all my love and elaborate flourish. And x times two, marking the spots to which I owe a lot, both head and heart.
And now it may as well lie five fathoms deep... Unless this thief of my thoughts, this mugger of my masterpiece, this plunderer of my post, was inspired into epiphany and saw the light - the bright light of the red post box, where the envelope wished to dive. It would warm my cockles if Mr Michael Edmund Kirk did indeed receive his piece of me, due to the redemption of a thief. One can only wait. And hope. And pretend to put it down to the postal service and their strikes. Because I want to think of humanity as better than a thief of birthday love.