The recent industrial strike action by the Post Office seriously affected my deliveries. The militant postal workers outside Whitechapel sorting office looked rather unhappy on their picket line as I walked past them on my way to work. But I’m not here to discuss the plight of the postal employee.
The strike has now ended and on my way home last night I was looking forward to sorting through a pile of week old mail to find letters from attractive ladies professing their love or a cheque for 1 million pounds after my name was selected at random – all mine, no strings attached – it could happen. PLEASE.
However, all my mail was for another individual. He uses my name and address but when I open the letter it ain’t for me. I bet you can guess his name. It’s for Bill. People want his money – badly. And he is so popular. I’m now ignoring his mail and depositing it in the dustbin, including the letters from the bailiffs.
Dear Mr Bill,
Leave me alone.
Love Nelson.
4 Comments
I get Bill’s mail as well, Nel. I have rather enjoyed the postal strike as it means his mail has not been appearing through my letterbox. Just leaflets advertising the Indian take-away and the new massage parlour on the market place - which I don’t mind, really.
Hey Nap, massage parlour? We’re there dude. I always end up in the message parlour though.
Can you remember that time you collapsed in that massage parlour in Hamburg when a Filipino lady got a bit carried away with herself? Ah, memories.
You sure it wasn’t a Thai ladyboy?