Number 57 #microletter

Number 57 #microletter

Number 57 #microletter

I check my post box. Uh-oh, something from the letting agency. The envelope has immediately given away its sender because they somewhat officiously add an unneeded line to the address in any correspondence. I live in constant vague fear of being turfed out of my home, and so anything unexpected sends a chill through me. With pulse racing so fast the beats have merged, and hands trembling as if awaiting execution, I rip open the letter. My rational self tries to convince me it’ll be okay.

 

It won’t: they’re giving me a month’s notice to vacate the premises. The neighbours have complained about loud music, and the property inspector was unhappy about the state of the place. I admit to hosting a party that got a bit lively, but it was a one off for my birthday. And I will confess that there were a few shaved leg hairs around the sides of the bath that I didn’t have time to clean, but surely he’s seen worse?

 

Making a conscious effort to breathe slowly and fill my lungs to calm the tremors, I dial the number. Blurt out to the receptionist that I’m sorry and can I please, please be given another chance. She puts me on hold. Cheesy music filters down the line; if it’s meant to be soothing, it sure as hell isn’t working. Finally, a reply: ‘We apologise, there’s been a mix up at our end. That letter was meant for number 57, not 37.’