This Little Piggy Shouldn't Watch The Crime Channel

Despite knowing myself well enough to realise that watching endless hours of the Crime channel might not be the ‘healthiest’ outlet for someone with a colourful imagination and neurotic tendencies, I did it anyway. It left me altered.

I changed my walk, adopting a self-assured swagger that alluded to martial arts expertise and my ability to transform from housewife into ultimate fighting machine in just a jiffy. I scrutinised new acquaintances for signs of imbalance. Familiar people too - for if there’s one thing I’ve learnt it is that you’re more likely to get disembowelled by your local lollipop lady than a stranger. And that is my excuse for what happened next.

When our post arrived with the word “Pig” scrawled on the back of one of the envelopes, I thought it was something to do with Accountant. Whilst other husbands sweetly refer to their wives as ‘darling’, my husband has branded me ‘Pig’ by way of endearment. I did wonder fleetingly how Accountant could have intercepted a utility bill delivered by the postman, but, when the thinking all got too much, I concluded it was his fault, as all things were. Two days later, a Christmas card arrived with ‘Pig’ on the back. I put it with the other piggy post and waited for my husband who denied all involvement.

“But that means someone else is writing ‘Pig’ on my letters!” I whispered, sitting down as I contemplated what this could mean for my future. I looked out the window, into the darkness, wondering what might be looking back in. A flashback from a Ted Bundy documentary came to mind. The one with all the pre-murderous stalking.

“It could be the Postman” deduced Accountant. I gasped.
“We’ll have to move” I responded before considering the problem of redirecting the post when your stalker works for Royal Mail. I pictured myself setting up multiple PO Boxes all over the country and devising elaborate postal pick-ups using zipwires, body doubles and a spandex cat suit.

I spent a fretful night next to Accountant who masked his concern with instant unconsciousness whilst I contemplated my new life as Mrs Smith of no fixed address.

Long, jittery days crept past with no further ‘incidents’ but, now living with a simmering sense of foreboding, I decided to confront the problem - postman on.

As I stood on my drive clutching the ‘evidence’ and my personal attack alarm, listening to him politely explain how P19 was an abbreviation for ‘Packet 19’, I should have quietly skipped away. Instead, I said how I had misread it as ‘Pig’.
He shook his head.
I then told of how my husband called me ‘Pig’.
“Nice” he said.
In conclusion, I rambled about how nice it would be to live again.
“Right” he said, slowly backing away.

So now, whenever he sees me, the Postman looks scared, clearly unable to fathom how I ever got released into the community.