The PostLady made me laugh sometime last week because she waggled her fingers through the letterbox whilst attempting to get the post through it. I waggled my fingers back at her, but of course she didn’t see.
Then, as I was retrieving the post from the doormat this morning, a sudden thought struck me.
Wouldn’t it be rather fandangly to be a PostLady?
I’m a very nosy and inquisitive soul. I love to watch people and find out things about them. I do this through listening to them talk to other folk, and sneakily peeking at messages they might be texting, or taking a gander at what’s in their shopping bags. Neighbours front gardens, the cars they drive and the frequency with which they pull their curtains or open their windows are always worth noting.
And looking through windows in winter, when lights are on but curtains aren’t yet drawn against the night sky, is the ultimate pleasure.
I like to see how other people live.
So surely being a PostLady would be my Dream Job [if we ignore the fact that early mornings just aren’t my cup of tea, obviously]?
What does my PostLady know? She knows that I used to be Miss OldSurname and am now Mrs NewSurname. She knows I have a cat, that I belong to a Union, and that I pay A Company That Isn’t British Gas for my electricity and gas supplies. She might think I’m a bit posh because I get the Radio Times delivered, and she probably thinks The Blokey is a tad geeky because of the magazines he gets about money and computers. She recognises that we like music and films because we use play.com a lot. She sees how popular we are at Christmas and can probably have a bloody good guess at when our birthdays are. She knows that I have a Tesco Clubcard, and whom The Blokey’s credit card company is. She is probably certain that I enjoy tracing my Family Tree and possibly wonders when I’m going to get my Student Loan paid off [that will be never, and I’ll never start paying it back, thanks for the free education]. She can see that someone [not me] is a better gardener than the former owners of the house but is also far lazier [the back gate still needs fixing].
At a push, and under pressure, she could probably even tell you the company who deliver our milk and the make of car that we own.
The only thing she can’t say is what colour knickers I’m wearing on any given day, although she could tell you that I tend to get my Over Shoulder Boulder Holders from Bravissimo.
I can’t even begin to imagine the amount of information she has stored in her head about the other residents of FlatHickTown. I wish I could get in there and poke about a bit …
The only problem with my PostLady is that she’s far more moody and miserable than I am. I don’t think she likes knowing everything about everybody. More fool her.
please God bless my post as it thumps onto my doormat xxx Elsabeth