The Post

I have just sent off some letters by what I have learned to call snail mail. What an appropriate moniker that is! How sad that postage stamps have reached such an astronomical figure and my letters arrive at 1 p.m. if at all. No longer do I sit at breakfast and use the butter knife to open the envelope (how shocking).
As a child I remember lying in bed at 9 p.m. and hearing the rat-a-tat of the postman's knock as he made his last delivery. There were several deliveries a day in London. In the 1930s one could send a letter early in the morning to a London address and get a reply by teatime.
The poor postman carried a very heavy bag, no trolleys in those days. They worked long hours starting very early in the morning. Mind you, the postman was the aristocrat in our street. At a time when unemployment was rife and outdoor workers did not get paid at all if the weather was too bad for them to work the postman had a steady job and a small pension when he eventually retired.
My father-in-law was a country postman and entertained us on many an evening with his stories. On delivering to a large house early in the morning the cook would often provide him with a breakfast and a warm by the kitchen fire. The baker would send him away with a freshly baked cottage loaf "for the missus". He was once given some fish by the fishmonger. He didn't want to carry it around with him so he hid it under a hedge. When he went to retrieve it there was nothing there but the bones. A cat had got there first. Come rain or shine he really enjoyed his work. He was a great talker and I think, like the pedlar of old, people relied on him for the latest gossip.