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I have a Pavlovian response when I see the red van parked on my street.
There’s nothing like the potential of a surprise, even if it’s been a while since I had a hand-written letter or gift, even a postcard. Instead, it’s always bills, or correspondence for our flat’s previous occupants, who left over a decade ago.
Alison Baker: nobody knows you moved. “Return to sender!!!” we scribble on the envelope, before sticking it in our nearest letter box.
I wonder how long it’ll be before those landmarks are relics, like phone boxes, which now double as urinals and micro offices for dodgy dealings.
Royal Mail is in trouble again, with various strikes, organised by the Communications Workers Union, on the run up to Black Friday and Christmas.
It’s a dispute over pay and working conditions. Pat is not a really happy man, and he can’t afford cat food. None of us can. Soon we’re going to have to eat Jess.
Of course we wouldn’t really do that, though feline burgers aren’t too bad, once you’ve picked out the whiskers.
It feels like this postal service is something else that we’ve always taken for granted, like heating and affordable food.
After all, it’s been around for so long, since the 16th century-ish. Perhaps when the Great Plague was going door-to-door, posties were doing the rounds too. Not that there’s any connection, obviously. It was the rats what done it.
Now, with cancelled letter deliveries on various October dates, we must be at last orders for Halloween. Act now, if you want to send someone an amputated finger or pressed tarantula.
Once I’ve found my green Biro, I’ve got a few poison pen letters to issue immediately. The professional trolls do it all online these days – so convenient – but hopefully there won’t be any physical missives delivered to my house.
At least I wouldn’t shoot the messenger. I’m always happy to see my posties.
They seem to have more time for customer service than the delivery drivers, who practically lob your package through the door like they’re in the San Francisco 49ers.
Then they’ll sprint off in their uniform of grey joggers cum harem pants. Unless they have to take a photo of the parcel on your doorstep, in which case you awkwardly pose in the background, grinning glaikitly. I often try to chat to them, in my desperate working-from-home-have-no-friends manner, but you can see the panic in their eyes. The clock is ticking, and they have umpteen other addresses to fling ASOS and Amazon parcels at. I can imagine the stress, I’ve seen Ken Loach’s Sorry We Missed You.
I have two regular Royal Mail posties. One of them always rings twice. It seems to be her signature, and I do wonder if she’s read the book or seen the film.
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