The postman always rings twice

Well, just as I said, the postman arrived and I signed for BB’s ‘Love Box Weekend’ tickets. My, that sounds like a good day out, especially with the weather we are having. It snowed in Battersea this evening…
The postman and I talked about his grandson Zac, who is nine weeks old and smiling. His Grandpa swore he heard him say ‘dada’.
Then I walked the dog. I bought him a new rope lead. It smells good but he won’t hold it in his mouth. He obviously has an aversion to twine. It’s about the only thing he does have an aversion to. If any kind of food has been discarded, mislaid, masticated or eliminated, it will somehow find its way into his Labradorian gob. I now walk next to him and scream, tersely, just to remind him who is boss.
So, carrying my five birthday cards, me and the hound set off in the midday sun. He on his new lead and me holding it. I was feeling bright and cheery and awfully virtuous…

BB was coming home for lunch so I timed it to walk down the hill and past the golf course, BB’s old school, and into the little post office. I’m having to take it easy because of my knee, and the dog’s having to take it easy because he’s 91.
So, carrying my five July birthday cards, I entered the Postal Office. I have so many Cancerian friends: Bella on the 1st, John on the 2nd, Gavin on the 3rd, Nick on the 4th, Ruby Tuesday on the 5th, Barbara and Sasha on the 7th, Louis on the 9th, Hilda on the 10th (only she died years ago so it doesn’t count). And Mary on the 28th, although to be fair, that makes her a Leo. Do you really care? I’ve already given up the will to live.
We arrived at the post office at 1.03. The two women who run it said in unison, ‘The post office is closed.’ And then, as if cued by Daniel Barenboim himself, they raised their voices and, looking straight at Jackson, bellowed ‘NO DOGS’. Poor mutt. I was taken aback and flabbergasted all at the same time.
‘Noooo’, I said with that downward inflection that people have when they’ve walked miles only to find the post office shut, ‘I only need to post 5 letters.’ One of the women left the counter and disappeared into the back room leaving her partner to cope with an irate customer. ‘I could sell you stamps, but I can’t weigh the letters’, she said smugly. Not moving a muscle, she held my gaze. I wanted to swear. ‘I’ve just walked two miles’, I lied.
The one remaining postmistress looked at me, in the steely way that women who own post offices do, when it’s just gone one, and they’ve been closed for three minutes and their beetroot sandwich is going cold in the back room, but she said nothing. She just stared at me waiting for my next salvo.
‘You bloody jobsworths. You’re all the same. It would take you precisely two minutes, if that, to deal with me. Instead, you are pulling rank, you useless piece of… and don’t think I’ll ever buy my premium bonds here ever again!’, I thought. What I actually said was ‘Oh.’
Jackson and I both walked out of the post office with our tails between our legs. I burst into tears. The unfairness of it all. Then, to add insult to injury, it started to rain. Not a little drip. Great big ploppy raindrops. Thunder was rolling over in Rotherfield so I had to shove all my July birthday cards up me jumper. By the time we arrived home, Jackson was limping and dripping. All my birthday cards were limp and dripping, and I had fifteen minutes to get to the main post office before I missed the afternoon post.
I leapt into my car, drove like the clappers to the Post Office and, once I’d arrived, practiced my deep breathing as the woman behind the counter was slower than the slowest person on a very slow day in Slowcester.
I arrived home in time to make some wonderful grape and apple juice and prepare a luscious raw salad with buckwheat fusili. Gorgeous, it was. I made a dressing with balsamic vinegar, worcestershire sauce and fabbo olive oil from the Olive Oil Club.
Then the daughter and I sped down to Brighton to drop off a ditty that Auntie B had written for her niece. We all had a cuddle and then it was back home.
She’s now gone back to Battersea to be with Jim, lucky girl, whilst I am here with the dog, the cat and a pile of easy reading. I may just have a bath and enjoy them in the suds.
It’s time to stop. I am writing this naked. Well, I have got a pair of Jim’s red soxs on. I am cold. Maybe the snow is moving south from Battersea.
Have a good night. CUSoon.