I took another look at the note...

It was small, I'll give it that. Inspection of it revealed small, untidy writing in general, punctuated by several larger, neater words of more than one syllable. Despite it's claim to be from local government, the letter had clearly been written by a group of mice - the demands for immediate payment of cheese taxation clearly supported this hypothesis, anyhow. Similarly, I'd seen a group of hungry looking mice hanging 'round the neighbourhood, shouting racist slogans at passers-bye and building igloos. Mice are truly fascinating creatures, I thought to myself, as I stored the letter in my letter rack. Fascinating, I thought again, as I returned to my paint fumes and hemp underwear.

Merry Christmas season

Merry two days after Christmas, everyone! And what a Christmas it's been. This post, of course, is for anyone who spend the season hidden in an internetless underground bunker, as is advisory during the festive season. Who, dear friends, could foresee the dangers and delights of this year's Xmas? Snow, sex and Santa, not to mention Hitler's ghost possessing the body of Simon Cowell and terrorising the population of East Anglia! Not for a long time has such community spirit been seen, as was when the troubled people rallied together to send the demonic beast back to hell.
 And get rid of Hitler while they were at it.

 And who could foresee Santa's surprise decision to retire? The nation is racked as it debates who best to take over the job. Early rumours suggest some unlikely candidates from the political arena - Troubled PM Gordon Brown looks likely to try and bolster his popularity with some festive gift-giving, while the Tories favour simply letting children buy their own presents - after all, if you need someone else to buy you something, you're not rich enough to be happy.

On a more serious Christmas note, I fear soon I shall be writing thank-you notes. I may be a grown man, but there's no arguing with my mother.
 So, to everyone out there: Thank you for my Christmas present. I am well, and hope you are too.
 Love Paul

Help!

I'm writing this message in the hope that it will manage to slip through my floorboards and into your flat. Im trapped under a garden-sized jenga set, which has collapsed on me. please help me, if i move the wrong peace, they could all collapse again. Theirs no way out!!!

I looked gingerly at the note that had, just moments ago, floated down from my ceiling fan. At first, I'd thought it was a message from God, probably asking me to keep the noise down, but then noticed the telltale signs of communication from Len, my upstairs neighbour: (Yes, I'm now living in a flat. Please don't bitch out continuity, I'm fictional, and it breaks up the flow. See, you've probably forgotten what was going on now. go re-read the last sentence and ignore this.) The bad spelling was a hint, but his love of extreme versions of family games was what really tipped me off. I considered helping him for a moment, but remembered all the trouble he'd given me last month, when he made me play snakes-and-ladders with him. As the owner of the game, he climbed a ladder, and cheered while snakes chased me around the flat.
 It's lucky I was raised by mongoose really.