The post arrived at four o’fucking-clock. In the Pee Em. What the hell is going on with these post men? 4pm is way past their bedtimes. They shouldn’t be wandering the streets at this hour. It’s almost evening. Postmen ought to be tucked up it their warm little beds with their postman cap hanging off the bedpost, fast asleep with Mrs Postman in her separate twin bed. He should be working so early it’s not even bright and early cos it’s still dark. Walking around in his funny little postman uniform shorts and finishing his round by about 8.30am. My, how times have changed since I was a boy.
There is a lamppost around the corner from my house; in fact there are several and this is not unusual. But this lamppost often has a large postman’s sort of trolley thing attached to it with a cheap flimsy bike lock. Just left there; abandoned by the Post Office in their official capacity as the Queen’s Royal Mail. No one watching over it, and no security devices that would provide an insurmountable obstacle to any determined thieves. The postmen wander around at their lackadaisical pace, occasionally popping back to the trolley to collect another couple of letters, way into the wee small hours of the afternoon.
Their paths are no longer the logical direct routes of old, and there are no longer two distinct separate posts; the morning post (about 8am) and the second post (between 11am and 1pm) that could be easily and dependably relied upon. Now gone are the structured routines of old. Yesterday the post arrived at 11am, today at 4pm. There is no logic and no consistency. The walls of my world are breaking down, the hallowed halls of civilisation are crumbled and buried beneath forgotten memories, and all art and science is gone to be replaced by vicious superstition and dumb faith. In retrospect it was too much responsibility to divest upon the Royal Mail; to be sole arbiters of the fate of humanity was more than their remit had prepared them for.
As I dozed on the sofa before my new DVD (mentioned yesterday, it arrived!) a was startled by a loud knock. Crickey, someone’s at the door! I ambled about pausing the player, and tottled down the stairs to the front door. Imagine my surprise when I opened the door and was greeted by the big hat badge and yellow jacket of a policeman. Dear god, help me, what have I done? They’ve finally caught up with me; my rotten fate befalls me...
But wait one moment; this is only a community support officer, and he is wielding a clipboard. He is conducting a survey amongst local residents about the state of this and the general thingy of that. Recovering from my shock, and with very little to contribute off the top of my head I politely decline. I say I would be happy to take a survey away and complete it at my leisure, but he says no, now would be better. Fine, I leave it at that, and my voice goes unheard yet again. My civic duty goes undone and my complaints go untold. This blog doesn’t count anyway. Blogs are just vanity projects for idiots, mentalists and megalomaniacs. Besides what would I have complained about? There is way too much dog shit on the streets around here; it’s like going back in time to the 1980s when dog shit was still everywhere. The wing mirror was kicked off my girlfriend’s car once... I occasionally see horrible peasants shouting at one another... I’ve got those bodies buried in the garden...
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