The Stormcock Community

The other day I was sat at home minding my own business, as you do, when the familiar almighty commotion of next door’s Staffy (Roxy to her friends) greeting the postman aroused me.  Shortly after, he delivered our post and I collected it from the floor and chucked it in Mary’s chair for later perusal.  As I did so, I noticed one of those red cards the posty leaves.  This card claimed that there was a letter to be signed for and that we hadn’t been in to sign for it.  I muttered a few choice words as I looked in vain down the street for sight of his high visibility jacket - but no such luck.

After lunch, I decided to walk down to the post office to collect the letter; but I only got to the end of the Close before the heavens opened.  I dashed back to my car and drove into town, failing to find a space in my first choice car park but succeeding at the second.  I then took my life in my hands as I crossed the road at a mini-roundabout, surrounded by impatient drivers who had been stuck in queues for hours, and presented myself at the sorting office counter.  I signed for it and then, clutching my precious load tightly, started to cross the road.  Something made me look left again quickly, and just as well, as I had to take a sharp backward step to avoid being marmelised by a 4x4 which had decided to overtake the stationary queue for the roundabout and force its way in on the other side.  Hopefully you can imagine my colourful language and gestures in his wake as I then resumed my journey with trepidation.  Suffice to say that one or two words began with f and b …

Next I had to retrieve the car at a ransom of 50p and rejoin one of the impatient queues that inched its way painfully to the mini-roundabout, finally achieving freedom when I turned right, against the flow and headed for the gym to let of steam.

When Mary came home, she opened her post and, as she opened the precious envelope, gasped with shock and laughter.  In it was a letter from Barclays Bank explaining that she had paid 10p too much into her ISA and enclosing a cheque for 10p, carefully handwritten by some foolish clerk.  We couldn’t believe it: why go to the trouble of writing a letter and cheque and sending it Recorded Delivery, which costs a fortune, for the sake of returning10p?  To compound the error, the postman had failed to deliver it and it had cost me petrol, 50p and nearly my life to collect it.  Mary said she was disappointed at that part of my story: if the 4x4 had run me over, at least the journey would have been worth while as she could have collected on the life insurance and my recent inheritance.

I just saw the cheque on her coffee table and remembered that I had planned to tell the tale before it became stale… As if she’ll ever actually pay it into her bank!