Stairlift to Heaven by Terry Ravenscroft Read Free Book Online Page A

started with the congregation singing The Old Rugged Cross, Norman’s favourite hymn according to the vicar, although how he knew I’ve no idea since the last time Norman entered a church prior to entering it feet first was when he got married. When someone got up to read the eulogy I thought we’d gone to the wrong funeral because the man of whom he spoke sounded like a cross between Francis of Assisi and Nelson Mandela with a bit of Little Lord Fauntleroy thrown in, and not at all like the mean-spirited bigot I knew Norman to be. Indeed he was made out to be just as bubbly, genuine and saintly as had the people on the TV news who had died.
    It struck me that nobody who dies is a shithouse. Everyone is a smashing, wonderful person. No one dying is a swine, a coward, a tight-fisted vindictive twat who wouldn’t give you the dirt from under their fingernails and who went around kicking cats for fun. I reflected that if a Martian had only television reports of the deaths of loved ones with which to form an opinion of Earthlings he could be forgiven for believing there wasn’t a single arsehole in the whole world.
    The conclusion to be drawn from this is that only the good die, shithouses never. So, in an effort to live as long as possible, I have decided to become a shithouse. Starting today. I informed The Trouble and Atkins of my intention, and the reason why. Atkins said it sounds like a good idea and that he may very well become a shithouse himself (I sometimes think he’s well on the way). The Trouble said I should have no trouble whatsoever becoming a shithouse if my behaviour the other week is anything to go by. I assume she means the business with her trousers.
     
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    February 12 2007. JUNK MAIL.
     
    I caught up with my junk mail return service today. I suppose I should know by now but it still never ceases to amaze me just how much of this unwanted garbage lands on my hall floor. It’s only four weeks since I last dealt with it and there must be fifty letters at least. When you take that over a year, and add to it the supermarket flyers, carpet cleaning offers, Wicks catalogues, freebie newspapers, election leaflets and sundry other bumf that infiltrates my letter box and pollutes my hallway it amounts to a lot of paper.
    At first I used to content myself with merely dropping it in the waste bin. Later I took to opening it, discarding the contents, sealing up the pre-paid reply envelope found inside and posting it back to from whence it came. This of course meant that the companies who sent me the junk mail ended up paying the postage on the letter whilst have nothing to show for it, at the same causing the pendulum to swing my way a little.
    Recently I refined the service and now the pendulum swings even farther in my direction. I now open two junk mail letters at a time, take out the contents, put the contents of letter ‘A’ into the pre-paid reply envelope from letter ‘B’, and vice versa, then send them back. I’ve no idea as to the reaction of the person at the other end who opens them. Probably apathy. But then I don’t care, either.
    A refinement of the above idea, which I have amused myself with quite a few times, is to actually fill in the order forms of offers and return them in the wrong envelopes. Except for my credit card details, which I falsify just in case, I fill them in absolutely correctly, age, address, where to leave the parcel if I am out, etc. For example the other week I received in the same post a plant catalogue and the offer of the latest in deaf aids. I ordered four dozen daffodil bulbs from the deaf aid people and two deaf aids from the plant catalogue people. I have yet to receive a reply from either. You might think that the plant catalogue firm, having received an order for two deaf aids, would pass the letter on to the deaf aid people, but no, apparently plant catalogue companies are only interested in selling plants; you could be as deaf as a post for all they