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“Yeah, I used to read your blog. But there are so many of them.” I’m sitting with my nephew in a pub. I chose it. Sam Smith’s. Cheap.

He’s bought the round anyway. My card got declined. I first met Sasha something over fifteen years ago when he was far too young to be playing Grand Theft Auto in my bedroom but he’d sneak in and do it anyway when I was out. Adopted nephew if you’re being technical. But nephew. Although now, after a Science degree at Oxford, he’s working in money. He tries to tell me about his work. It’s predicting schlumflam blurmers with the hurmburm flism. He’s glad of the weekend. I tell him I frequently don’t notice when it’s a weekend. I just work when I’m working and not when I’m not.

Today I was pretending to be a mini-golf pro in Clerkenwell once again. Only a couple of hours work, and then seeing friends and family. There was a hailstorm just before I started, and another one just as I finished. Miraculously for the two hours I was exposed with nowhere to hide it held off. I packed up in a rush as the clouds got ready to open and made it to within two minutes of the pub before the Gods dumped ice on me.

Sasha and I grabbed Mexican food and beer and I burnt my lip on a jalapeno popper. It’s been way too long since I’ve seen my nephew though. Great to catch up. It’s funny to experience that – people you first met when they were children buying the round when your card gets declined, which of course mine did. Dammit.

Then a rush across town to catch one of my dearest old friends. She had to go to the theatre for work and I arranged to catch her before. She’s teaching at one of the old drama schools and the kids all have to watch a particular show at the Trafalgar Studios for £30 cheapest ticket restricted view. “Do you want to come with me?” “Not for £30.” “I don’t blame you.” We spend a bit of time buying a sticker book and catching up. It’s been ages. Her presence is like a tonic.

Then it’s back home to bleach ceramics. I’ve left an experimental broken bust overnight in a bucket of Domestos. My fingers stink of chlorine, and feel very dry. I’ve bought some rubber gloves now, but I’m feeling pretty weird after a few hours of inhaling the stuff while trying to get smoke out of these figurines and busts. On the plus side it seems mould spray with chlorine and bleach can get pretty nasty smokemess out of some ceramics, but not all. It’s a lottery as to whether the smoke got cooked in under the glaze. All this stuff was in such a fire and much of it got to a very high temperature.

Time and application lets me restore some of the beauty, and just now I had a message on my eBay – “Thank you so much! The ceramic ballet shoes are just like the ones my grandmother had. I missed them.”

I’ll know more tomorrow morning about what can be saved out of the really fucked stuff, and about whether or not bleaching busts mean that they forever stink of chlorine like I think my fingers might. Right now I’m fading towards bed, with Pickle asleep on my leg.

My rock and roll Friday evening was all sorted as far as I was concerned. Having taken a box of Porcelain up to my flat, I was experimenting with cleaning products. Bleach and chlorine spray, in particular. My fingers stink. Half way through my experiment, my phone buzzes. “What time are we meeting?” Oh. Shit. I’ve agreed to go to drinks with Coney. “See you in an hour.”

Back before Immersive was the buzzword, there was Coney. Originally Rabbit, born at BAC, from the same stable and time as the better known Punchdrunk and the better loved Shunt. A playful secret agency, characterised by their lack of desire for publicity. It fitted with my rather unusual early desire to be an actor that nobody was noticing. I wanted so much for the humans to stop cluttering the stories. I found people at BAC who were deliberately ignoring the established power structures and doing weird stuff. Weird AND subversive? Where do I sign? With Tassos, essentially. He was and is brilliant, unusual, funny, bold. We made things together. Some of them worked. Some of them didn’t. We learnt through all of it. Games in the real world. Plays where the actors can see the audience. Continuing the work of remarkable practitioners in this country like Joan Littlewood to break down the barriers. There was no possibility of being “impressive” at Coney. You had a thing to put across and you did it. It was a useful alliance just after Guildhall. It helped me drop a lot of shit. And it gave rise to a wave of interesting work in my industry.

Years later and yeah, I’ve had some great notices out of my wacky work with those guys. My photo unnamed in national papers. Considered and positive angles written about my work. But part of the deal is the anonymity – (we all had codenames back in the day). And I’ve recently started to realise that the work is sometimes less relevant than the ability to prove you’ve done the work. So it serves me less to work hard for a company that forefronts anonymity.

I loved the time I spent with them back in the day, throwing things against the wall and seeing what stuck, and Battersea Arts Centre was a very good place to do that. For this evening it was just reconnecting, play testing some of their coming games, and meeting up with old friends. It’s lovely to see how there is an audience for the work now.

I’m working tomorrow round the corner from Guildhall in a treasure hunt theatre game thing that totally came out of Coney. Often in the past I’ve felt that Tassos has the job of getting there first so that someone better with numbers can nick his idea and make it more financially viable. That’s what I’m doing tomorrow, very close to where we built the incomprehensible “Something Running”.

It was a good night, seeing positive people from my life, all over too briefly.

I only took one photo today that wasn’t of porcelain. It’s me at Alie Street…

I’m tired tonight. A week of dayjobbery, interrupted tomorrow because of my greed. I had a full day booked, but then another job called me last minute. It pays more, so I cancelled my shifts tomorrow as there’s always people hungry for it. But then the other job told me they’d filled the gap so I ended up accidentally giving myself a day off, which in a way is just as well as I can make use of the twilight of the van to get the rest of the weird bits out of storage before it rolls over into another week. There’s not much left and most of it is probably going to a museum of music hall. But I’m very tired. It’s not 9pm yet and I’m feeling like I want to be asleep already.

I was winding down when Brian remembered it’s local election day. I threw some clothes back on and the pair of us struck out into the surprisingly cold night in order to exercise our democratic right. We got to one polling station, and nothing. Round the corner to another, but the lights were off. Two security guards at the gate of the Royal Hospital. I asked them where the polling station was tonight but they looked at me blankly. No local election today in our borough. Well. At least we tried. We stopped by the shop on the way home and arrived home glad of the effort. We both had been talking on the way up about how we had somehow missed all the info about the candidates and we were going to have to spend time reading at the station. But thankfully we hadn’t heard because there wasn’t a damn election…

Now I’m in my bedroom again, supine. There’s a glass of reasonable Argentinian Malbec on the windowsill behind me, which I intend to be the only one tonight. I occasionally sit up for it. Like now. Mmm. Once this and the dogs l glass is finished, I’ll wind into sleep and treat myself by letting the builders be my alarm in the morning rather than that annoying little jingle that usually claws me from my slumber. No work means less money and yesterday’s booboo could run to thousands so I’m going to have to be careful until I know the bill. But a day off on a Friday before a bank holiday is legit and will help me get the next big eBay push lined up, sharpened and ready to go on Sunday.

I’ve stopped selling my uncle’s clothes. I sold one shirt. It took them two weeks, but they got back yesterday with a horribly worded message about the condition. I had inspected it and seen none of the things they mentioned. But it turns out they just wanted a refund. They got their refund and immediately gave nice feedback despite their long message. I’d have been fine with “We don’t like the shirt, can we have our money back”. But I guess people have to go in fighting in case they’re dealing with an asshole.

Onwards. Good things are coming, not least among them being a good night’s sleep…

There’s been a hole in my life lately. Two people – my two best friends – both had a baby girl within a month of each other. These were my 2am friends. “Help. I’m sad.” “I’m in bed. But I’m not working until 1 tomorrow. I can get up.” “Get dressed and get a cab here.” Not booty calls. Just reconstruction. We would often talk for hours on the phone, literally. I’d put the phone down hot handed and click back into a world that wasn’t speaking in my ear, almost confused.

Nowadays I have to put it in the diary if I want to see them. Even phone calls are interrupted and pointedly more practical. They’ve got shit to do. “Oh hang on, she’s crying, I’ll call you back.” I totally get that. There are small humans who demand a high level of general attention, and they depend on my friends for their actual literal survival. I was lucky to have one of those friends on hand tonight, though, while we left Rhys quite literally holding the baby. It could’ve been messy without. I think we both benefitted from winding down with each other. But I arrived in the interaction in a total state and she helped me find perspective.

I fucked up today, big time. A family thing, mixed with a family work thing. Something so screwy that I’m not yet over it enough to be able to blog it. And something that will almost certainly be the most expensive mistake I’ve ever made, plus will vindicate suspicions my close family have had about me for years. I feel very black-sheepish. I’m beginning to secure interesting friendships with my brother’s kids, but I think I’ll always exist as a message. I need to hit some good jobs soon so that message shows that these decisions can bear visible fruit. Because otherwise I’ll be remembered for fuckups like today, which will definitely be a good story once the dust has settled but right now feels raw because it affects my bro.

My family is also my friends of course, who will remember me for more specific kinder things and who miraculously put up with the results of my self-sabotage. That’s been for decades, and they know it, those few lucky/unlucky maniacs who persist.

I was late because of having to firefight the nonspecific (sorry) shitstorm I created. But with nothing more to go on than my monosyllabic “help fuck sorry late need hug” type messages, I explained my situation in full and got the most restorative evening I could’ve asked for from my friend considering I was a jittering hunk of stress when I arrived, and how much of a plum I’m feeling still. I remember my mum as a source of unconditional love when I got a parking fine. This is similar. It’s basically a thing that is 100% my fault that impacts me negatively.

You’ll get the blow by blow in time. Probably when I get the bill. Right now I don’t want to look at it. It just triggers more self recrimination and I’m supposed to be out of that spiral by now. Avoiding writing about it has made me smile about it for the first time all night though… Everything looks better from a distance… God the world… Hilariously nuts. Sorry to be evasive. Gah. Fuck. Idiot. Ugh.

I’m just home, to my flat, with Pickle. Going to wind down.

 

This morning I dropped my friend’s stuff off in Chalk Farm. She’s moved into a property guardianship, in an old condemned council house. She’s not the only one there by a long stretch considering it’s condemned. And she’s paying more than you’d expect.

As I’m carrying things up the stairs one of the other tenants, coming down, says “You are moving in?” “My friend is.” “Why? This won’t be here in two months?” “Well, then at least she’s got somewhere for two months.”

I feed it back to her. It will be there, she reckons. They keep delaying the demolition. And you get 30 days notice which at least gives you time to run options. And if she has to move again, she will.

But it pisses me off. This city is so hard to get by in. I was woken by the builders on the scaffolding. “I did one of those long jobs – a bank extension,” one of them was saying. “They were all staying on site overnight. Up in the morning, working 16 hour days. Sleep on site. Paying no tax but I bet if they get sick they use the NHS.” I don’t know how the guy outside my window knows their tax affairs. But I can understand why they slept on site if they could. There are loos on building sites. Despite all the empty space, this city pulls people to the centre, but using the public transport is punishingly expensive for low income, and property is impossible.

I like to have people from out of town on my sofa for a night or two for free. I get company, maybe some food. They only have to worry about train fare. If I can, I put people into my room when I’m away for less than she’s paying for guardianship. These property guardian rooms are evidence of another fat parasite anyway. I got quietly angry about it today, going up in the murder-lift.

Fifteen years ago, a company would own a building that was unused and likely to be unused for a while. To prevent squatters or vandals it was helpful for them to have someone living in part of it.

My friends who had recently left drama school sometimes ended up in a boardroom at the top of a defunct office, or in an old pub or … well, any manner of old building. Sometimes they’d pay a peppercorn rent – like £10 and bills. Sometimes they’d actually be paid a few quid and work a bit like caretakers. This made things possible for these young artists, so long as they were fortunate enough to have someone to introduce them to the owners needing the guardians. All the people I knew that did it were highly responsible and careful individuals. “I can only ever have one guest at a time,” “No alcohol up here,” etc. They had to abide by Draconian rules, and they did so.

Problem is, someone realised there was money to be made, and probably used paranoia as a weapon. Fear of the bad people. “We will vet your guardians with a stringent process, to prevent BAD GUARDIANS” Create a problem. Offer a solution. But also, people want cheap rent. In exchange for taking work away from the property owners these buggers made guardians pay to be caretakers. “Yeah it’s almost what you’d pay for a box in zone 5, but look at the garden.” Then they packed them in. One such company is currently going to court for putting over 30 paying people – maybe as many as 60? – into a property with just one working bathroom and one kitchen.

To my mind – and perhaps my actor training biased me – the people from the broken homes, the semi literate, the heavily dyslexic, the ones breaking out of generations of systemic poverty – they were bringing more to the table in terms of depth for work than the soft ones like me, who couldn’t understand why nobody got my joke about Achilles, and back then could speak the words but hadn’t learnt to feel them. You’re always looking across the fence, sure. But my work was towards what they had for free much as their work was the other direction.

Those rare voices can’t weather time unpaid like I could thanks to my parents. It’s cost me some comfort and perhaps a family of my own, to hone myself. The loss of those super cheap guardianships mean responsible hard working guardian types can’t do a show at a pub theatre in the evenings and polish the door frames in the day. Even low rent doesn’t come out of doing Ibsen for expenses and “recognition”. Rep is all but dead, and lots and lots of people want to be actors because of this odd conflation of acting and fame in the public imagination, the one that makes for so many awkward family gatherings “ask your agent to put you in that Star Wars.” Plus it costs us a fortune in car insurance. Starting out is hard!

Power to the Brians of this world, making jobs in this sector. But cheap accommodation in London… How, now, if guardianships charge so much?

It’s approaching the end of the time I have with this van, but it’s taught me that having a big van in London is a very good thing for me.  Even my agent approves. I suspect I’ll be getting one of my own pretty soon once I work out the finances.

The last of the plates are finally in it, and will be up to my flat tonight. This means I will then be able to sort them into sets, inventory them, squirrel away the ones we want for Carol, and get rid of the rest. We will get our living room back and then I can just gradually pick over the contents of boxes. Serendipity is my friend in this. I’m in Hither Green at the moment, waiting for a friend, and I get talking with a guy who is refurbishing his own house here. “Only two ways you get a house like this in an area like this. Be a banker, or spend years making it,” he tells me. “A good friend of mine is doing something similar in Margate,” I tell him. He’s been at it six years. He sees the sheet music in the back of my van. That’ll be going to a museum of Music Hall in Dover. “This is a very musical street.” He tells me. “The guy in that house collects pianolas.”

I’ve got three rolls of music for a Victorian pianola. Now I’ve got the phone number of a man that collects exactly that sort of thing, and he lives just round the corner from one of my best mates. Another thing almost ticked off. More to go. Celluloid film is high on my list now as it can spoil. Time to get it digitised and find out what footage I’ve found before it disintegrates. Then there are busts to think about. A show with a room full of busts… But right now I’m still on basic ceramics – mugs cups and plates – and by the end of this week I want to have that in a good place, rather than all over the living room. I’m not even close to sorting my own crap yet. I’m still deep in other people’s.

Right now though I’m waiting for a friend who is moving house. That’s the best way to keep the crap levels down. Moving house lots. Although “Just a few boxes,” is a lot of boxes. Plus she neglected to mention that they wouldn’t be full when I got there so she’s filling them while I write this. Moving out is stressful enough without someone hustling you about time. And these days I’m good at spotting a blog window. So I’m sitting in the cab getting this written. Once it’s scheduled I can switch off the internal alarm that occasionally makes me say “fuck” out loud just after switching off the light.

All this space, on wheels. It’ll be full of furniture tomorrow so we are dumping out first thing.

In this city you can monetise a broom cupboard. Big yellow want something close to 400 quid for the size of this van in their real estate empire, and lots of showy security technology even if it’s just guarding junk you’ve got nowhere else to put. Lyndon has paid £250 for a month in a damp garage in East London – for his timber. Hopefully he’ll get to use the timber. Better to try to reuse materials than the dump and buy new every time. But always – always “where do we keep it?”

Here she comes. I reckon we can go. Out.

The amount of times I’ve had a plumber over to do a simple job and I’ve mentioned that the water pressure isn’t great in my top floor flat. “I could take out those old taps in your bath, and replace them with nice mixers,” they invariably say. Because the taps are lovely, and valuable, and they want them. One plumber said “Watch out, people will be after your taps.” “Will changing them affect the pressure?” “No, not really.” He’s the one I use.

When I cleared out the bounteous storage locker I said “Some of this stuff is worth money. I’ll likely sell some, keep some and put some in theatre. Are you sure that’s okay?” The family I was working for accepted, understood and even encouraged that. I’ll give them tickets to Christmas Carol this year and they’ll eat off their mum’s plates. Good on them for supporting the arts. It’s okay if it’s all in the open and their only other option was the dump, where they’d pay for weight and everything would be broken.

Stuart the drunk plumber rinsed me for whatever he could pull out, charged me for weight and sold it. Bulfords swapped my windows for breezy balsa wood and nicked the period weights into the bargain. I’m much more aware now as a result of these guys. But I’m not going to operate like them.

I get the sense that Ryan from Oxford is operating a bit like that though. I met him today. He’s been changing doors. He’s taken out a steel Crittel door and probably replaced it with some plywood. It’s a hell of a thing, and it weighs a ton. He’s probably said “ooh this is heavy but I’ll dispose of it for you for an extra fifty quid.” He’s listed it on eBay. Someone who is refurbishing a house in Walthamstow has bought it for over £800. These things go for thousands new. But they need to be moved around in a van. It’s a friend of a friend. I am sent off to Oxford with over £800 cash in my jacket pocket, to get this monstrously heavy door. I like to dress smartly when I’m working. I’ve got a suit for loading and unloading. I wear it. I put the money in the inside pocket and don’t stop. I’m not taking any risks.

Ryan takes one look at me in my suit and hat and sees money. Suddenly he’s got a dicky back and a limp and “ooh I’m going to feel this in the morning”. I don’t think he realises I’m not the person that bought his door. His whole being is focused on showing me that this is hard work for him, and letting me know the value of the door. “Careful of that key! That key’s £500 right there!” “We’d best lay this carefully, these things retail for 6 grand new.”

Once we’ve worked up a sweat and it’s almost done I casually say “I bet you got these for free, didn’t you?” “Yeah,” he says. “Yeah I did.” *Pause* “But I … I gave the guy a discount on the job. Yeah. I took £500 off the value of the job. £500 off I gave him, off. £500.”

I give him his sheaf of cash. He doesn’t count it. I never do either but it surprises me.

At the other end there’s a lot more ground to cover. These doors are just SO HEAVY. It’s incredible. Eventually two smiling women and I get the things into the house. They are visibly thrilled with the doors. While I have my traditional workman’s tea, one of them is already measuring whilst the other – (familiar face, have I seen her in something?) – charms me utterly with small talk. I’ve got a “striking face” apparently. It “makes sense I’m an actor”. Yes. It does.  I think she is too. She’s certainly good at it, and good at doors too by the sound of it. “This is my thing. I’m going to strip them right back, clean them, make them black I think. They’re going to be beautiful.”

I’ve learnt a little more about doors today. There really is a market for everything if you have the knowledge. It’s the knowledge that’s hard to come by.

I’ve been sorting plates and saucers and finally watching Fleabag. It’s hard to do the two things simultaneously as Fleabag frequently pulls everything so tight that you have to give it your full attention. I’m glad it lives up to the hype, for me at least. I saw it scratched as the one woman show and it was great, but I’ve delayed watching the TV series for that old familiar reason of “I want to give this my full attention.” For some reason, surrounded by boxes of plates, I felt that my full attention would be available today. It was, but just for Fleabag. The plates aren’t done. Admittedly it’s a huge job. I’ll get it done but I’m going to have to get better at bulk selling, throwing stuff out and making ill informed decisions quickly instead of well informed decisions slowly.

I’ve put a lot of stuff up into the attic for #later. But the attic has been a convenient oubliette for years and I don’t want to fill it even fuller and then leave it for decades. Things need to be steadily leaving the flat. Right now they’re still steadily coming in as I empty the storage onto my living room floor.

With typical understatement Brian tells me “it’s not my favourite thing you’ve done, this antiques thing.” The living room is full of boxes. All the surfaces have things on them. Tomorrow afternoon I’ll suddenly have to box this week’s eBay haul for postage so some things will go. But until I know about bulk postage discounts etc it’s all just sitting on the surfaces waiting to be packed. Periodically I have to take a photo of one of the pieces and send it to the person who wants very specific details about condition. There are many versions of that person, despite my exhaustive photographs. I think they really just want satisfaction I’m a real account.

I’m writing this from a hot bath with piano music and candles. I’ve been winding myself up all day, and Fleabag is a tough watch in terms of empathy so I’m winding myself down. After this I’m going to finish the last two episodes and still manage an early bed I hope. Tomorrow I’m off to Oxford briefly, then more plates. I’m keeping the fire burning under this work because it has to be done constantly and if I get an acting gig out of town then a lot of stuff will either go into storage or crammed into the attic, so better to deal with it now before that comes in. So it’s good that I’ve allowed myself a little plinky plonky candlelit bath. Although I’m using it to write this rather than relax . Permission to stop.

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I lay and looked at shadows for a while. I don’t do that enough, looking at nothing in particular with brain untethered. It’s always a screen or a face or a cat or a road or a plate. It’s nice. People used to do it for days but now we have the world in our pocket. Sometimes it’s worth remembering that watching random things like shadows in candlelight or clouds and sky or running water or living fire – watching those things can be as powerful and fulfilling as watching curated things like YouTube and David Attenborough and Fleabag.

But Fleabag is brilliant. She writes everybody so well. I’ve got so many points of resonance. Glorious. I’m going to watch the end of it now and I’ll be sad it’s over.

 

Two auditions in two days, for two lovely companies. Familiar companies. I’ve worked for both of them in the past and had a lovely time. This week for three consecutive years has brought that rare thing – auditions. For three consecutive years I have auditioned for two different summer jobs. For two consecutive years I haven’t sealed the deal which is not a nice feeling. Props to the producers for getting me back in though. Comforting if frustrating, but I’ve noticed a shift in my outlook today.

For a few years, auditions have been super important to me financially – in my imagination. I’ve been worried about and blocked with money and have been thinking of any audition as a potential solution to the ever present threat of hitting rock bottom. I remember two years ago romanticising the idea of a US tour of Dream as the solution to a whole slew of financial problems. In reality, in retrospect, it would’ve been avoidance. What I actually needed was what the world gave me. Time. Time to address the root rather than to gad about doing lovely plays away from home. I went into those meetings, and a few others, feeling I needed the job. The need for validation was there somewhere. Various ancient insecurities… Wanting a stranger to say “I choose you!”. But for selfish reasons. Something has shifted since then – perhaps since Camino. Certainly I’ve never felt like this before. I enjoyed both auditions. I went in and had no concern in sharing my present moment with them. If the jobs come they come and I’ll enjoy them, but somehow I haven’t projected hope into them. I’ll gladly work with them if they wanna work with me. It’ll be fun.

I think this means I’m in a better state than I’ve been for ages, which is remarkable considering my early Spring was as hard as it’s ever been and I was on a self destruct tip.

After my fun audition today I went to Big Expensive Self Storage, and filled the van with plates. Left just a few weird things in there. Haunted dolls and celluloid.

Tomorrow is plate day. There are so many plates, but they’ve all been thrown willy nilly into different boxes, so until you’ve got all the boxes in one place it’s impossible to establish what is there. I’m hoping I’ll be able to co-opt Brian into helping because by the end of tomorrow I want to know exactly what we have for catering Christmas Carol, exactly how much we have of all of it, and exactly what is surplus to requirements so I can step up the eBay machine on Sunday and throw all the stuff we don’t need back into the ether either by way of charity shops or eBay. Christmas Carol has been the acting job that has bound together my last two years and helped me keep in touch with my craft. If I can bring a full set of period plates to the table then I bloody well will. It’s all about adding value.

It’s nice to be peaceful about these auditions. “What’s for you will not go by you,” they say. Nam Myo Ho Renge Kyo. Have a good weekend.

Now I know why it’s called “second class”. I sent a mug up to Elgin. It made it surprisingly quickly, but the guy sent me a photo of the package as it was when it arrived with him. Some idiot had basically dropped a gigantic marble slab on it or something, and taken a proper chunk out of the mug. I refunded him in full on the spot. A useful lesson. I thought my first major eBay firefight would come out of some asshat trying to play the system. Nope. It came from Postman Pat indiscriminately throwing whales into his van somewhere between Southwark and Elgin.

I’ve started to trust eBay a bit more. The first few weeks of this I kept expecting people to scam me. Historically eBay has a bad reputation for scammers. I still get bailiffs for an old flatmate who refused to pay his seller fees for an item that was bought with a stolen credit card and then the transaction was returned after he posted the item. It was originally something like £3.87, and he wouldn’t pay it on principal, and nor should he. Years later they still try. It might even be a decade now…

It queered my trust with the site, that they failed to have any understanding that they’d facilitated a scam, and persisted in chasing him down for fees on money he never received for a valuable item that he lost after being pressurised into sending it quickly.

If Pat chucking bricks at my mug is the worst I get in this eBay process I’m thrilled. It’s still early days of course. It’s when you start to relax that the crazy people strangle you. I’m thinking I should start to use “fragile” stickers even if the guy in the post office said “Those stickers just make them throw it harder when they’re angry.” But it’s never what you expect. Someone will return an item but actually send me a dead horse, or I’ll post something to someone and one of Pickle’s hairs will be on it and they’ll go to hospital with anaphylactic shock and my picture will show up next to their red and puffy face in the Daily Star. “Evil Actor Sent My Son A Toxic Mug.”

I’m sticking with Royal Mail for now to send these things because I sent one item via Hermes once, and it was promptly and spectacularly lost. That’s a 100% loss rate and the value was more than the insurance. I just can’t trust them enough to go back right now. It’s atrocious. And I’ve received parcels from yodel that look like they’ve been detonated.

Just one broken mug out of hundreds of packages with Royal Mail and at least the money isn’t feathering the nest of some fat bigot. It’s subsidising second houses for twerps instead, and building nukes, but a penny for the NHS. And they got it from London to Elgin in under 48 hours. If only Postman Pat hadn’t replaced Jess with a herd of angry elephants.