All week I had waited for the postman - each morning looking impatiently for him as the minutes ticked away. Worried I would have to leave before I saw him, each day I was cutting it fine to catch the train for work, the normal seven minutes walk compressed to four and a half and a wish that British Rail would not run to time.
The interview at the time had seemed to go so well but each day since, my confidence had dwindled until by now I was convinced my dream job would not be mine.
And then, out of the corner of my eye, I saw him coming along the road, going to next door but two, next door but one, next door and then...
The envelope landed face down on the doormat, white, A4 and sealed. I came down the stairs in a rush and looked at it - who was it from? Could it be? Could this really be the letter I was waiting for? My heart skipped a beat as I moved towards it and tried to imagine what it might say: "I am pleased to inform you..." I smiled in anticipation and then reality struck. This was me. Surely it was much more likely to be "I regret to inform you that on this occasion..."
I dithered not knowing what to do. My cat purred round my legs in a figure of eight not used to being ignored at this time of day. Surely breakfast (his) was far more important than any piece of paper? He finally lost patience and elegantly posed on top of the white envelope, guaranteed my attention at last. I sighed, picked him up for a cuddle and with the other hand turned over the envelope.
Seen through the window was the name and address of my neighbour. It wasn't even for me. Our dyslexic postman had yet again read number 29 as number 92.
I fed the cat and ran to the station as the tannoy announced that British Rail regret that...
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