Dear Next Week,
We haven’t met yet, but honestly, I have high hopes of a beautiful friendship between you and I.
Certainly, I know you won’t let me down the way that bastard Last Week did.
For starters, there was the unfortunate incident where I had to cancel a night away in a 5-star hotel in favour of dealing with emails about server upgrades.
You’d never do that, would you Next Week?
I am also 100 percent confident that you won’t be involved in any bird-killing shenanigans, the way that Last Week was.
Which is lucky, because it means that I won’t be forced to scream like a little girl at the sight of a decapitated bird having been dragged through the cat-flap. And I especially won’t be forced to make my seven-year-old daughter go and get the keys out of the back door because I’m too freaked out at the sight of my kitchen having been transformed into The Killing Fields, and we’re already late for school as it is.
Because you’re good and kind, Next Week, there will be no reason for me to have to ring my ex-husband and plead for him to come round to my house to clear up a dead bird, followed by a lifetime of being at his mercy because that’s how long I promised to be in his debt in exchange for the carnage clean-up.
If at all possible, Next Week, I’d really like not to have to deal with anyone who has “technical support” in their job title. I am sure everyone I spoke to Last Week meant terribly well, but if I hear the words, “I’ve never seen that happen before. I’ll Google it,” once more, I think it might just be the end of me.
And I know I’m asking a lot here, Next Week, but if you could swing it, I’d like not to go to sleep in a room where there’s a mutant giant insect that will bite me on the arse. And no, I’m not using a metaphor here.
Let’s face it, you’re just not that kind of guy, Next Week. You would never make me allergic to the insect in question, meaning my entire rear end swells up and turns red, causing me to walk with a limp for three days that I have to try and explain to the District Commissioner when attending training for my role as a Beaver Scout leader*.
You wouldn’t do that to me.
Would you?
Yours Hopefully,
Sally
*Obviously, this is just an illustration of something that might hypothetically happen to someone, rather than being something that happened to me. Obviously.
