I am fuming right now.
“This came
to my kitchen,” he said. We were down in the common room, quickly going through
a singing project before having to perform it on Tuesday. That was the opening
line that greeted me when I came down to join my group. In his hand, he held a
yellow envelope with my name and address on it – only, the part that said “6.1/B”
(which is my house and flat number) had been crossed out and said “6.4/H”
instead (which was done by the reception people. They're way of "redirecting" letters). For a few seconds I could only stare perplexed. Then, as it dawned on
me what this meant, a rush of freezing cold and scolding hot sensations washed
over me. For the duration of our practice I was trembling; I didn’t know what
to do with myself – I still don’t
know what to do with myself. I’m just so incredibly pissed off right now I
would, in all honesty, probably punch the next person to speak to me.
Now, if
what’s happened doesn’t make full sense to you, allow me to elaborate:
I was
forced to move flats. And, lucky me,
it happened just before my birthday. Because of that, I went to the reception
countless times to ask if I would receive my letters. Parcels I wasn’t so
worried about, because we have to come and pick them up at the reception, but
letters and smaller things are delivered to our kitchen. I asked if they had
the whole post-thing sorted out, and if my letters would arrive safely to me.
Each and every time they assured me that no, no letters would be delivered to flat
6.1 anymore, and yes, everyone knew about the move and the letters would be “redirected”
to our current flats. No worries.
I can
remember so clearly all the times I went, and all the times they assured me. At
the time I considered asking them to just hold on to all my letters so that I’d
just come down to collect them at reception, just to be safe, but the reception
people just kept assuring me. So I
thought it was fine. I thought all my birthday letters would arrive safely and
that I had nothing to worry about.
It’s been six days since my birthday, and I haven’t received anything. I wasn't too worries, but then I came down to
practice in the common room today; then I realized what has actually happened. The
accommodation people have really fucked
up big time now. Moving flats can be fixed; the bad way we’ve been treated
can be ignored, but lost letters? They can’t be returned. Not if they’re long
gone in countless rubbish bins.
I have to
wait until morning now for the reception people to come to work. I have to wait
until tomorrow morning, knowing that my letters have probably been scattered
around campus. Knowing that they have now probably been thrown away by people
who don’t know me and therefore don’t give a shit about a stranger’s letter.
Holy fuck,
I’m so incredibly angry. Someone’s head is going to roll tomorrow.
Amidst it
all, a guy in my class came over to me and pushed a big bucket of
wonderful-sweet-stuff-I-don’t-know-what-is into my hands with a card. “Happy
birthday,” he said, the whole thing much to the surprise of the rest of the
class – and me. Not because he congratulated me, but because I wasn’t expecting
anything and even less from him. It was a pleasant, shocking surprise. 
Albeit
school ended at eight thirty and it’s school as normal the day after, the girls
from my former flat (my true flat) and I went to Burger King for food and then
Townhouse for a small drink. The guy behind the counter overheard us talking,
and whilst I tried to convince Toria not to buy me a drink, he planted a shot
of something pink in front of me. I know free drinks are nothing unusual for
birthday-people in pubs, but as the counter-guy did it of his own accord
without us asking for it, it was quite the cool surprise. 
