Dear Lady in Post Office
I fully appreciate that if you visit a small, single-counter post office, you run the risk of getting stuck behind someone doing something that will take a Very long Time. Some post office type tasks are just slow.
I can live with this.
However, can I tentatively suggest that it might, just possibly, be a teeny-weeny bit unreasonable to spend nearly FIFTEEN MINUTES trying to decide which Olympic gold medallist you want on your letter.
I’ve seen some of the Olympic stamps. They are very nice. But what may have escaped your notice is that once you put one of these miniature works of art onto your envelope, you will then place it in the post box and never see it again. A fifteen minute-long decision-making process therefore seems a little bit disproportionate to the pleasure you will derive from the eventual purchase.
And I have to say I am a little puzzled by your stamp-deciding criteria.
You wanted one of the rowing stamps. I approve of this. I like rowing. I was there for two of those gold medals. But I’m going to hazard a guess that you weren’t. How do I know this? Well, the conversation with the lady behind the counter was a bit of a giveaway. The description of the women’s pair and double as “the women, in a two” was one giveaway. As was your query about the “men’s team who won gold, didn’t they?”
So given the fact that you appeared to have no particular involvement in rowing, why in the name of arse, did you spend over five minutes debating the relative merits of the women’s pair and the women’s double?
Particularly since you then decided that you actually really, really wanted the dressage team. And were prepared to spend a further five minutes agonizing over the decision between the individual and team stamps.
And then you eventually left with Mo Farah.
That well-known Olympic rower and dressage competitor.
After a final few minutes considering whether the 5,000m win was more stamp-worthy than the 10,000m victory.
Why? Just why?
The post office queue
Seriously. How I didn’t run down the queue, grab a woman rower at random, lick them and slap them on the envelope, I do not know.
Fortunately Ben is not the most patient of creatures and after staring at the woman with growing disbelief for a few minutes, he launched into a series of pterodactyl-like shrieks, clearly intended to convey “What the bloody hell are you doing, woman? It’s a bloody STAMP!” causing her to finally become aware of the ten or more people, glaring and fuming behind her.
“Oh dear,” she said, with a weak smile. “There’s rather a lot of people waiting.”
Excellent, I thought. She is going to finish up.
“Maybe I’ll just have one more look at the 10,000m one…”