I like getting things in the post. I always have and I certainly hope that I always will. The thing about post is that there’s always a little sense of anticipation before you tear back the crisp white paper fold of the envelope or rip into the resilient grey plastic of those weird waterproof jiffy bags. Amazon even have a tiny little cardboard pull strip on their small packets, It never seems to work properly though. The delight of opening the post is like a tiny, little, private birthday present, or a brief personal Christmas. Getting post of any sort, for me at least, makes me feel important almost special. And then there’s the little guessing game before you open as you try to work out what’s inside, as you test the weight and check the return address info on the back. It’s an almost spiritual experience. Were I to get a letter from the bank that simply read:
We have spent all of your money on whores and caviare. We decided this was the best use of your money as you are poor and by extension unimportant.
Love and kisses
New Bankerson Bank Corporation
– “We are proper gits”
I would, of course, be slightly miffed that I wasn’t at least invited round to Fat-Cat McBankerson’s swinging bachelor pad for of an evening of snorting caviare off a hooker’s belly (that’s what you do with caviare right? I wouldn’t know, I’m poor.) But I would still be happy I got a letter. I like post. Post is fucking magical.
Last week I received something that I’ve been awaiting with bated breath for quite some weeks. Inside two, yes two, waterproof, plastic jiffy bags (sealed at opposite ends no less) all the way from Lake Stevens in Washington State, Americaville, came this sexy little thing: