When you reach the point where a sign suggests that an
inanimate object is about to talk down to you…and you feel that’s probably only
fair…you are probably in trouble. Here is what the patronizing stamps said in
my head as I queued.
“Oh, so you want to post
some Christmas cards, do you? Ah, how, nice.
And I suppose you want my help with that, hm? Want to just nip into the Post
Office, pick a few of me up, pop me on the envelopes and away you go of a lunch time?
“Oh deary me, you do have a lot to learn don’t you! No no,
that’s not the way. They way it works here, you see, is that you need to go to
a completely different section of the building to buy anything you may
actually need to post an item – you know, envelopes, boxes, pens and such –
before even thinking about finding me. Oh, how funny you thought you could buy
all those things at the same counter! Though, you are of course only a silly
gweilo, and maybe you weren’t to know…
“And then of course I imagine you went to, oh, at least two
windows that seemingly inexplicably didn’t sell stamps, or at least not the
right ones, before getting to this queue? Sure, sure you did. Nothing to worry
your silly head about, just remember to come to this magic window next time, I’m sure the
logic is too much for your addled British bonce.
“But then of course, *cough*, there is the slightly
embarrassing matter of how well travelled these cards are, isn’t there? Don’t
tell fibs now, be honest – you’ve already ferried them all the way to the UK
once, haven’t you? On your work trip home? Just forgot to post any of them when you were there didn’t
you? So now, you’ve come all sweaty palmed and worried to me to try to get some
last minute help from your philatelic friends and wing those cards all the way back across the world to where you meant
to put them last week, yes?
“What a silly sausage you are.
Now get licking and sticking, and let’s see if we can sort
all of that out for you, eh?”
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