Nothing says I love you like a shit in a jiffy bag.
Especially one that seeps out the top when you cram it though a letter box.
Yes, it was diarrhoea.
No, I don’t have a cream hall carpet. Thank fuck.
I made a huge mistake in thinking that someone I had known for a long time was normal. Okay, so I knew he wasn’t quite all there, but I was on self destruct so I carried on regardless. When I came to my senses and told him that he was a fucking nut job and that I never wanted anything to do with him again (yes, I probably could have phrased it a little more gently), he started stalking me.
At the peak of the stalking I was receiving 300 iMessages and emails a day.
I would get five really horrific messages wishing me dead or that my legs would drop off (random), followed by a rambling, thousand word email about how much he loved me.
I didn’t respond to any of them at all.
Then one day I looked out of my bedroom window and saw his car parked across the street from my house with him sat in it. He was there for three days.
On the third day I finally let a friend, a brick shithouse of a doorman, come round.
“Do you want me to drag him out of that car and batter him?” Was his rather sweet response, followed by, “If he’s been in there for three days, where is he going for a shit?”
In jiffy bags, as it turns out.
How do I know? Because an hour later, I heard a thud through my letter box.
The shit. In a jiffy bag. Or actually, the shit running out of the jiffy bag that was wedged into my letter box, dripping all over my floor.
When the police were called and questioned him on why he did it, he claimed he had nothing to do with it.
There is a lesson for us all in this story:
If you are going to post a shit in a jiffy bag through someone’s letter box, make sure it isn’t one with your name and address on it.