At work the other day I received one of those charming Royal Mail bits of cardboard. The ones that I suspect are delivered because, oh I don’t know, the pubs are open and the parcel is too heavy or something. Hmph, and no-one says thank-you when you’ve spent all day trudging round in the cold and the rain, and what the fuck happened to giving the postie a Christmas tip?

Normally I get these bits of cardboard rather than a parcel because it’s been delivered during working hours. Working hours! When no-one’s home, yeah? There’s probably some great strategy at work here to maximise everyone’s fucked-offness. I digress.

This latest bit of cardboard promised a surprise. I wasn’t expecting a delivery. “Ooo, it’s proof of life on other planets,” I thought. The bloody aliens had, understandably, got a bit confused about the postal charges though. There was 40p left to pay.

40p for the chance of never having to work properly again because I’d be on the Trekkie/Trekker circuit signing photos of someone who looked like a younger version of me? Best offer I’d had all day.I logged on the to the Royal Mail website to settle up. Oh, another £1 to pay in admin charges. Hmm… well, I could do a better ad for Warcraft than Shatner… bring it on.

The next day the alien communicae arrived. It was a box of radioactive cakes from Ultraspeed hosting to say “Merry Christmas and thanks for the business this year”. I’m thinking of sending them a life-size replica of the Eiffel Tower made from lead with a 2p stamp stuck on it.