The One In Which I Hand In My Complaint Letter

Okay, so maybe I haven’t actually screwed up with the whole letter - I’d say I handled it quite well. I let all my informality drain away from my body, and I suddenly became my mother. That’s a screw-up in itself.

I borrowed one of Hubby’s fancy business fountain pens, and, after spending about half an hour figuring out how to change the empty ink cartridge (thanks a lot, Hubs), I was finally able to use it properly.

I started off by writing the date and all that crap neatly, cursing out loud whenever I smudged, and so had to blot with tissues (I was saving those for my soppy romance movies - Starbucks shall pay for that too, I’ll make sure of it) multiple times before getting into the swing of things.

Thankfully, I had no interruptions from Littleboy1, or else he was in danger of getting stabbed with a sharp pen.

After I’d written the whole letter (which took me about two hours, as I had to look up every single word on the formality dictionary, in fear of coming across as someone from MTV Cribs), I neatly folded it in half and sealed it in one of my posh envelopes, which I usually use to jot down my shopping list on occasion.

“Done it yet?” Hubby asked, hovering over me like a bee, obviously waiting for his pen back.

“Yes, I have, so here’s your precious weapon back,” I said, giving him back the pen and watching him scurry off lovingly to do some of his paperwork or whatever.

I put the letter in a very safe place (okay, fine, sort of safe place. My bra wasn’t a good contender at this time), up in one of the cupboards out of Littleboy1’s reach (I didn’t feel doodles of stickmen being stabbed with blue carrots was the perfect solution to solving this issue - then again, maybe they’d actually pay me, if I threatened to stab them with colourful and sharp vegetables…).

Fine, I’ll admit it. I forgot about it for a couple of days. Maybe it’d have been even longer if I hadn’t desperately required the cheese grater for Littleboy1 (he wanted cheese on toast, and I was too stressed to say no). That’s when I found the bloody letter.

My screams could be heard in the whole neighbourhood, so much so that Hubby even came running (and that’s when you know you’ve screamed loudly).

“What’s wrong?” he asked, and I could see the pain in his eyes, the pain that was dragging him away from his work (God knows why he’s so in love with it all).

“I. Forgot. All. About. The. Starbucks. Letter.”

Hubby raised his eyebrows lazily. “Let’s call the police shall we?” was his sarcastic remark.

“Police? Police? What police? Why police? When police? How police? Where police?” Littleboy1 had transformed into a budgerigar.

This is my everyday life.

After running all the way down to Starbucks (I felt that if I drove I could ‘accidentally’ lose control and kill myself) I panicked.

What do I do here? Do I just go inside and give it to the person behind the counter? Do I ask for the manager and give it to him?!

So, I went inside. So far so good, I thought. There wasn’t a big queue, so I just, slowly, walked forwards. When the man in front of me had just got his coffee, I was scared shitless. What if it happened again? I wasn’t wearing very gripping shoes - bad move. I gingerly stepped forward, rubbing my foot ferociously against the tiles for signs of liquid. I then realised I looked like a psychopath, and so stopped and smiled.

The woman behind the counter retreated in horror a bit, and so I just thrust the envelope at her.

“W-What’s this?” she asked, warily touching it as if it were a bomb.

“It’s a letter for the manager,” I said, confidently (where did that come from?), “and I’d appreciate it if you gave it to him straight away. It’s urgent.”

I then turned my back on her and walked out, my dignity intact, my head high, and walked straight home.

I will now wait for my vouchers.