It has become a very rare event for me to enter a Post Office. I don’t suppose my children even know where our local one is. That is quite sad. I went last week. Had a lovely time. Bumped into a friend and we had a long chat…and then another one…and then a friend walked by with her baby and I took a photo of her sparkly toes for my blog…and all was good with the world.
The parcel I had to post was for my godson who had left his hoody here and needed it for his holiday. So I found a hoody I didn’t recognise from my banister, carefully wrapped it up, queued for ages and paid £7 for the benefit of it getting there safely the next day. I was very pleased with myself. Job done. However, she sent me an email yesterday saying “thanks for the hoody, but it’s not his”. How rubbish is that? You’d think I’d be able to get something like that right.
My other fleeting disaster with the Post Office last week was trying to wedge my niece’s slightly too big for a teeny weeny slot birthday present into the teeny weeny slot in the red post box. It didn’t work. My hand got stuck and so did the parcel – much to the amusement of my daughter’s friend who walked passed just at the wrong moment. Anyway. It took about a week to arrive and my brother has to go and pick it up because I haven’t paid enough postage. I bet that’s punishment for wedging it into the box.
I wonder how long Post Office’s will last. I guess in more rural areas they have a vital role, but with hand written letters and cards rapidly becoming a thing of the past and parcels mostly ordered and sent online it’a going to be very hard to survive.
