I rent a PO Box from the local post office (a remnant from when I stayed in a flat with no post boxes of its own, and when I moved out of there, I decided it was more convenient to keep it and pay the Post Office their yearly school fees than inform all and sundry who still live in the Stone Age and send me snail mail about the change of address). I’m also terrible at remembering to empty out said PO Box. It’s almost as terrible as me remembering that I have a blog…
Anyway, for the first time in several months, I made a detour on my way to work and emptied the damn thing out. I was running a tad late, so didn’t check the contents there and then. A while later, when I arrived at the office, I then quickly filtered through what I’d obtained. There was the usual junk mail and bills pointlessly sent by various companies (who e-mail their bills to me anyway, and my efforts to educate them about the wastage thereof have so far been futile). But that wasn’t all.
There was also a traffic fine.
Someone else’s traffic fine. Approximately two months old. And sent all the way from Beaufort West.
Which the Post Office had, in all their infinite wisdom, placed in the wrong PO Box. My one.
To the intended recipient of said traffic fine: I’m so, so sorry. I’ll make sure it ends up your PO Box on my way home this afternoon.