Post

An illegible note through our door yesterday suggested there was probably a signed-for letter somewhere in the postal system and if we would like to present ourselves, passports, driving licences, mother maiden names and a triple-signed certificate of letter-wantingness at the sorting office in Cambridge, some clerk at the end of a slooooow moving queue might deign to hand it over.

Meanwhile, having a parcel to send, I might like to present myself at the end of another even slooooooower-moving queue, though I only need to hand over pictures of the Queen this time.

Of course, that would be easier if I lived in a time and place where post offices opened; or worked in a town where post offices existed.

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Why, oh why do retired people go to the post office at lunchtime?

And why would you go shopping and get to the end of the queue with not even the cash to pay for the jiffy bag you've just put your gift in to send it to Australia?

And why can you pay by debit card for postage, but not jiffy bags?

ARRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRGH

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Meanwhile, here's a nice picture of a mill. Same one as before - I thought I may as well detour back having had to drive several miles to post something.

A post mill

ARRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRGH

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Calm. Need beer.