Sticky Paper

Sticky paper, scissors, string
paper fasteners, drawing pins
toffee, ribbons, penny bars
line the counter down at R's.

R's was the post office, run by Ranald McDonald of Barcaldine. To my childish eyes it was not so much a post office as an Aladdin's cave. It even smelled of Barker and Dobsons, Huntley and Palmers, with a hint of highland damp!

When I was about eight, my sister Kate and I, our neighbour Morag Munro and our little brother Ben were judged old enough to go down to the Green log-cabin post office on our own. There we'd chat to Ranald, pat his liver-spotted spaniel Roy, and collect the papers for my grandmother's 'scheme' or estate at Achanreir. On the way back up the steep, steep hill, we'd have a rolled-up-swordfight, or an incident involving squashed wild raspberries. By the time we got back the Scotsman would resemble a blood-stained treasure map, with authentic tears around the edges. To this day, I am amazed at the kindness of all the householders who invited us in and gave us sweeties when we delivered their ruined papers.

So, what's the link to today's blip?

Chcocolate and sticky paper memories. On Friday I went for a semi-regular blood sugar test (diabetes type II runs in the family) but I had forgotten about it beforehand and accidentally eaten at least six chocolates before I left work! (My nursery manager colleague is leaving: that's my excuse).

So the reading was high, and I decided to go back today for a fasting test. I left home in bright sunlight, with blue skies abounding. By the time I'd got out of the pharmacy (with a reading of 5.1. which is normal, this time) the weather had turned grey, with a heavy shower threatening. So instead of the Flame Trees of Park Gardens, which was to be my blip, I bring you Sticky Paper Studios, on the Slad Road. The sign and its bold style brought back memories of my Blue Peter-style childhood, when I spent many hours reinventing the wheel, fashioning it out of ice cream sticks and acorns. Hands up anyone else who remembers the Bic glue pen?

I've marked Barcaldine on the map, as that is where my memory took me, After Ranald's death, his patch of land and Post office site were left to my aunt and uncle. Their daughter Kate moved in to the mobile home and re-opened the Post Office (her brother knocked down the old log cabin and built another one fit for purpose) which she ran for five years. She is now a PhD and has moved her focus but still lives at Ranald's, as the site is known. Her father and brother have been building her a new house, some eighteen years after she moved into the 1970s mobile-home. She's raised a daughter there, too. I hope to see them next week when I return to my ancestral paper-route.