A while ago, I was talking to a friend of mine.
He happens to know a bit about accountancy and tax and all that crap, so I showed him some papers I had been keeping.
“How much do you reckon they’re worth?” I asked him.
“About five years, with remission,” he replied.
This worried me a little. I don’t want to go to prison, because I don’t want to become a heroin addict, and I believe that is mandatory these days.
I bought a paper shredder, that is guaranteed to make any sheet of paper illegible.
It’s a nice looking toy. It’s all black and brushed aluminium. I couldn’t wait to try it.
I shredded up some stuff that was lying around, and it worked very well.
Then it jammed.
I rang the shop.
I got talking to a very nice woman who was very helpful, but she wasn’t too familiar with that particular machine.
“Have you tried reading the manual?” she asked.
“Ah!” I said.
“What?” she asked.
“I think the manual is what may have jammed it,” I replied.
“How come you shredded it?”
“I wanted to test the machine, and it was lying there, so I shredded it.”
“That’s fair enough,” she replied. “Try sticking something stiff into the slot to unjam it.”
I refrained from making a joke about bishops and actresses, and thanked her.
I found a credit card that Herself had carelessly left on the table, and that did the trick. She spent too much anyway.
I spent the afternoon yesterday happily shredding stuff. I then burned the strips and dumped the ashes in the heart of the compost heap.
Now I can’t find my car insurance certificate.
But that’s a small price to pay for staying off the heroin.