Postie

I peek through door I sign box I say thanks I close door I drop mail on floor I go back to bed.

I open eyes.

I go back to mail.

I signed for:

wrong name
wrong street
even the wrong number

AGHHHHHHHHHHH

Pull on jeans over pyjamas grab keys bag envelope head to road – no postie.

Run to car start car go down street – no postie.

Drive round block – no postie.

Drive to the address on envelope that is not mine – no postie.

Knock on door, they’re not home and I’m holding their registered mail.

I should not just dump it in their postbox, that is wrong.

SEE POSTIE!

Runtocar dropkeyspursegoesflying – postie going down one way street?


Grab bagstuffkeys dive through window drivedrivedrive POSTIE PASSES dive into driveway, residents look at me in shock as I wave at them, in my pyjama top that is stuffed into jeans… reverse, back down road…

Where….?

Where’d postie go?

Postie?

Oh (#$&*)#*$&^#$

Drive to the official post centre where they do the official postie postie postouts with the bikes and the trucks and the post – and I show envelope with:

wrong name
wrong street
even the wrong number…

They look at my pyjamas stuffed under my jeans.

I show envelope and my license and they go “Oh… right, sorry.”

I go to car. Drivedrivedrive.

park.

bed.

Ding dong.

Postie is very sorry – but did she give me wrong envelope?

I’m not coming out of bed for the rest of the day, thank you very much.

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