I went down to the post office in the local Spar just before Christmas. You had to wear a mask in the shop. They often choose to close randomly for a few hours, unannounced, but I was lucky on that day. There was a long queue for the Post Office counter and the assistant-of-a-certain-age was taking her time about what to do with each parcel. I was starting to feel a bit narked and the woman behind me seemed to be sidling up a little too close in this mask-wearing environment. Every time I shuffled one step forward, Typhoid Mary would shuffle TWO steps forward.
At last it was my turn and the first parcel I put on the scales was interrogated by Ms. Of-a-Certain-Age:
“Can I ask what is in this?”
I didn’t know what to say. I finally decided that honesty is the best policy and declared in a firm and confident voice:
“Well. it’s a Boris Johnson toilet brush.”
Now the whole queue behind me cracked up and so did Ms. Of-a-Certain-Age.
“I so need one of them,” my former queue enemy declared. A chorus of “Me too”s and “”So do I”s followed. So in the end I came out of that post office/Spar smiling. Parcels posted.