I am very fond of the men who deliver my mail. There are two: a short. rotund, smiling one and a tall, thin lugubrious one. Both are efficent and courteous - but shy. That is why I cannot show you a photograph of either; here is their mail trolley instead, safely attached to a convenient lamppost.
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"Letters of thanks, letters from banks ..." |
Grateful though I am for my daily visit, I also recall that, in the days when Anthony Trollope revolutionised the service, there were up to 10 to 12 deliveries a day, starting at around 7.30 a.m. and ending at 7.30 p.m. George Bernard Shaw sent off a thick MS of a novel in the morning only to have it returned the same day, rejected. Trollope, during his 33 years as a civil servant, brought the idea of the post box to Britain, although they were sage green at first before becoming the familiar bright red we know and love. Of course, he was also writing many fat novels, drafting them before starting the day's work for the Royal Mail. I wonder what he did with the rest of his time.
