BZZZT! goes the doorbell. Oh, I hate it when the doorbell goes. It is the sound of bailiffs. But this time it is the postie, who is much more welcome. Most often he brings books, of which I am fond; sometimes – hint, hint – he brings whisky, of which I am even more fond. (I said: SOMETIMES HE BRINGS WHISKY, HINT, HINT.) Sometimes he brings gifts in the form of cash, and that is probably the best, for cash can be exchanged not just for whisky.
This time, the parcel I have to open the door for baffles me. I am good at telling what’s inside an unopened parcel. I can even do envelopes, and I once was able to say, correctly, just by looking at it, “Ah, this is the unpublished manuscript of my Inspirational English Teacher’s novel, which he is sending me in the hope I can somehow help to get it published,” and it was, and it is very good, and does deserve publication, but we are not here today to discuss that particular injustice.
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