Neil Oliver: Mail’s personal touch can deliver us from the evils of the internet | Scotland

I was blissfully asleep at 6.55am on Thursday when the doorbell rang and woke me. Imagine my joy as I stumbled from my warm cot and downstairs to open the door and find a representative of the Royal Mail, bearing a parcel. My enjoyment of life was only heightened by the discovery we made, he and I, that ours was not the address he sought. He had the door number right, and the street name, but we are in Wotsit Place, and what he needed was the nearby Thingummy Road. Imagine how I didn’t laugh.

Shivering in my jimjams on my frosty, darkened doorstop, I waved him on his way, my tears freezing hard in the wind. My hounds were happy to see me up