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Lorraine Mace |
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Post Traumatic Stress |
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Never having lived in a country where postal deliveries are advertised as a selling point, my husband and I completely failed to appreciate the prestige value that had been added to our new home by the words: Post delivered. When I say new home, I’m using the term loosely as the foundations haven’t yet been dug, but we’ve been promised a post box. In the meantime we are renting an apartment. The agent showed us the view over the fairways, the scrap of sea (if one leans forward slightly to the left and stands on tiptoe), air-conditioning and all the other features that made the place desirable. “And, what’s more” he said, his voice leaving us in no doubt that a treat of the highest order was in store, “the post is delivered.” I’m ashamed to admit that our response left him feeling a little flat. But at that stage we hadn’t realised the cachet this conferred on the building. We duly informed all and sundry of our new address and waited for the replies to arrive. After a couple of weeks we began checking the box on a daily basis. No post rewarded our endeavours. One day another resident passed as I was going through the ritual. “I don’t think she comes today,” he said with a smile. “I’m not sure, but I think she delivers on Tuesdays and Fridays.” I was so astounded by the knowledge that deliveries only happen twice a week that I’m not certain I thanked him properly. The next afternoon (a Tuesday) saw me approaching the box, key in hand, sure there must be post. After all, we’d been living in the apartment for nearly a month without as much as a utility bill arriving. The kindly voice of another resident stopped me in my tracks. “She hasn’t been today. I think she comes on Mondays and Fridays.” I explained about my information from the previous day. “Hmm, it’s a bit iffy,” this resident said. “She doesn’t come if it’s raining, or if her sack isn’t full.” I couldn’t tell if he was joking, but he went off with a wave and didn’t seem to be fazed by his lack of mail. Clearly the sunshine, blue sea and clear skies all encourage a more relaxed attitude towards life. But, in the meantime, where was our mail? I was beginning to believe the notion of postal delivery was nothing more than an estate agents ploy, but then Derek remembered that he’d seen the post lady the week we’d moved in, so we knew the illusive female did actually exist. Frustratingly, he couldn’t recall which day of the week it had been. And then, finally, the great day arrived; we had post in our box. I remember it clearly. It happened on a Friday and it hadn’t been raining. Whether or not her sack was full remains a mystery, as no one saw the delivery in progress. A camera-shy Yeti is more visible than this illusive lady. What joy there was in our household as we exclaimed over bank statements, electricity bills and the like. Never before have we found unsolicited junk mail, forwarded from our previous address, to be such a source of wonder. We read every word of every item. We kept the envelopes as souvenirs, in case no more arrived in the future. © Lorraine Mace 2005
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