This is a call.

Since I wrote this post, a few of you have enquired as to the whereabouts of my letter from Dave Grohl (not to mention the copy of my book signed by his ACTUAL HANDS). ‘Aw, it’s on its way,’ I said, never wanting to count my chickens before they landed on my doormat. (If you’re new, by the way, the background to all of this is here. Also: hello!)

Even when my mate Ant texted to say that ‘something exciting from a certain rockstar’ would be arriving at the weekend, I still remained a picture of calm (read: physically restrained myself from telling anyone else while internally riffing the arse off Bill-and-Ted-style air-guitar). Because, much like I am with ghosts or aliens or God(like geniuses) – I don’t believe anything until I’ve seen it.

But when a follow-up text asked how I was enjoying the parcel that had been hand-delivered to my door that day, the truth hurt… because there was no parcel to speak of. Despite remembering exactly what had been delivered through our door that day (a press release and some bank jargon or other), P and I searched the flat, trawled the bins (and our neighbour’s bin) and door-knocked the houses on our street to see if it had been misdelivered, but no dice.

In absence of a concrete contact to reach out to about my correspondence from The Nicest Man In Rock^TM (remember, this had been organised through a friend-of-friend-of-brother-of-mate-of-girlfriend-of-cat-of-Foo-Fighter), Ant found herself in the difficult position of having to help retrace the parcel’s steps. Hence, the only info we’ve managed to get back is that the postie(s?) in question must have got the wrong address. We know that they got off at the right station… we think that they delivered it to the right house number… but we’re pretty certain that the house was on the wrong street, given that there was some talk of walking through a park between the station and my house. (There is no park between the station and my house.) Hence, what we’ve gathered is this: somewhere in the SW18 postcode, someone is (was?) in receipt of a parcel addressed to me. And either they don’t know how important it is or they’re busy setting up an eBay account. (I know, I know. The irony ain’t lost on me. This is me breaking my back on my getting-over-cancer holiday all over again.)

I hadn’t intended to blog about this because… well, because it stings like a mofo, dammit! But since I rather let the cat out of the bag on Twitter earlier today (only for said cat to run wild, start a hashtag, become a momentary trending topic, and get offered an interview on Christian O’Connell’s breakfast show) I figured an online explanation exceeding 140 characters was the right thing to do.

So! This is a call… for help. Because at times like these we need a little bit of resolve. (Sorry. I’ll stop that now. Unless of course you want to be my hero.) Do you live in SW18? Do you know someone who lives in SW18? Have you – or has someone you know – received a parcel addressed to me? I'm told that it was wrapped in brown paper, with my name on it, and had a flower stuck to the front. It won’t have been mistaken for junk mail. In fact it’s the polar ruddy opposite of junk mail. It’s treasure mail; swag mail; booty mail! And it’s addressed to the ludicrously lucky shyster that is me.

My official answer to the where’s-your-letter question, however, remains: ‘Aw, it’s on its way’. Because, when it comes down to it – whether the parcel ever finds its route to me or not – the mere thought of Mr Dave Grohl (not to mention the super-sweetheart of a Foo-HQ fairy who set this up) even considering sending me a note – let alone actually writing the damn thing (with his ACTUAL HANDS, no less) – well, by ’eck, that’s more than cool enough for me.