My friends laughed, when the computerised psychometric test
we took at school recommended I pursue a career
as a post office clerk, thinking of the battle-axe that sat
behind the counter of the post office we’d grown up with.
But at the post office this lunchtime there was something comforting
in the firm hand pressing ink stamp to paper; the air mail stickers
were bluer than any sky I’d ever seen and I could do worse
than find myself a sub post office to manage, where I could bestow
pensions and tax discs and at first light each morning
launch my very own fleet of postmen, the best sort of men,
the ones that know the only way to live this life is free in the afternoon.
http://www.picador.com/authors/Lorraine-Mariner
