Before I knew it I was back home sitting in front of the telly with a cold can of Kronenbourg 1664, raising a toast to my newly confirmed position. Again the day had sailed through.
After the first time I’d noticed Mr Brizelthwaite snaffle away one of those letters, I’d started making notes in my diary. I pulled it out of my pocket and flicked through the pages; 22nd May and 17th June. Neither of the dates rang any bells with me.
I knew, now, that I had to get a look in that folder if I was going to quash the low buzz of the question that had become an irritant in the same way annoying jingles could. “What are those letters…what are those letters…what…?” and on and on and on.
“Right,” I convinced myself, “tomorrow is Operation Dead Letter Day.” I would work late and find out once and for all – then approach Mr Brizelthwaite and ask. I nodded to myself acknowledging this was the only way forward, the only way to kill off the annoyingly recurrent question that was beginning to plague my every waking moment.