Really must revise the mail filing system...

About eight weeks ago I received a little pile of mail. I don't actually remember it, but if my usual routine is any indication, I stepped inside my apartment, dropped the mail, my bag, my keys, a carton of milk and quite probably a small selection of other odds and ends on the dresser in the hallway (and by hallway I mean tiny, tiled area barely big enough for me, never mind a dresser) just inside my door. I kicked off my shoes, sprinted into the bog for a pee. I came out, probably made myself a drink, popped something frozen into the nuker and sat down to watch Will and Grace, now on every day at five-thirty, which makes me very happy indeed. I likely ate my dinner (and by dinner I mean scarcely edible pasta with fatty, white goo, one chewy white chunk and a very light sprinkling of nameless green - marketed, incidentally, as Grilled Chicken Parmesan Penne with Broccoli Florets. Is a speck the same as a floret? I think probably not, but I digress.) After dinner, there's a pretty good chance I poured another bev, stuffed in a Mars bar and changed the channel. I might have done a load of laundry. Maybe I checked my phone messages. I certainly didn't call anyone back since I am notoriously bad for returning calls. It's not that I don't want to talk to anyone. I just have bugger-all to say and small talk makes me itchy. In my defense, my outgoing message says, 'I can't take your call right now. If you'd like to leave me a message, please do so after the tone.' It doesn't even hint that I will call back. I probably took a shower at some point to save time in the morning, maybe made tea, popped in a movie and puttered until the news finished at midnight at which point I brushed my teeth, got into bed, read fifteen or twenty pages of whatever was on the nightstand at the time and fell asleep.

Fast forward eight weeks.

Last night, I received a little pile of mail. I stepped inside my apartment, dropped the mail, my keys, my bag, a carton of milk and a small selection of other odds and ends on the dresser in my hallway. I kicked off my shoes, sprinted into the bog for a pee. (The variety in my life is staggering, yes?) When I came out of the bog I reached for the mail but it was gone. I looked on the floor, the kitchen counter, the vanity in the bog. Nothing. Then I pulled the dresser away from the wall a few inches, and behind it was my little pile of mail. Sitting atop another very dusty little pile of mail. Now normally this wouldn't be of any concern to me whatsoever. The bills come in, I pay them - I don't necessarily open them - I just pay them because they don't change much. I'm not sure exactly why, but this time I opened all of it, and was not remotely surprised to find out that it was largely the same old shit. Phone bill - paid already. Visa bill - paid already ( and by 'paid' I mean, paid enough to keep them off my back for yet another month but nowhere near paid off. Life is debt. I've made my peace with that). Mastercard - paid already (Ditto). Cable/ internet bill - you get the drift. The last piece I opened threw me for a bit of a loop. It was a lateslip from the library telling me that I had two overdue books which I should return and pay the fines immediately. I had absolutely no recollection of any overdue books. That's when I looked at the titles of the books and the name on the letter and was mortified to discover that it was not me! The letter was addressed to my neighbour, who I have never seen. I didn't even know someone lived there.

So here's the moral dilemma I faced. The admirable course of action would have been to seal the letter, knock on the neighbour's door, explain what happened, apologise profusely, insist that I never completely read the letter or the titles of the books ( since they were books about a medical condition with a bit of a stigma - nothing dangerous or contagious, just horribly embarrassing), offer to return the books for her and pay any additional fines incurred since the day I received the letter. That is what social responsibility and common decency told me to do.

What I wound up doing, and I'm not at all proud of this, was popping the letter into a larger envelope with an anonymous note saying "I got your mail by mistake. Sorry for the inconvenience.", shoving it under her door and bolting from the scene before she had time to lift her arse off the couch.

Shredding the damned thing and playing dumb crossed my mind but that, I am reasonably certain, is punishable by jail time, so I nixed the idea. I also considered going to the library and quietly paying the fine, but with my luck I would have got a scathing lecture from the dour librarian with absolutely no sense of ha-ha, just like I did that one time I opened my M and Ms packet too loudly and interrupted the other patrons. Again, not an option. This is all probably irrelevant since the library folks ring you and leave an automated message about ten days after they send you a notice, so my neighbour likely returned the books, paid the fine and got on with her life a good six weeks ago. I really must get over the guilt. Am I overthinking this?