Bev snuck into the Soho Post Office, feeling quietly smug as the lunch hour had not yet started and she would be sure to miss the crowds as she arranged for her Christmas card postal delivery.
She was, however, entirely unprepared for the scenes that immediately confronted her.
The seemingly endless queue writhed around the tiny, sweating space. It was almost as if Euro Disney had gathered all of its angry, impatient crowds waiting for a 3 minute entertainment ride at the end of a long Saturday in August and piled them all into this one terrible place.
Muttering all the swears she could remember, and even inventing some herself, Bev detected the end of the queue and began the arduous process of ‘who could break first’. Minutes ticked by. Seasons passed. Bev began to display the seven signs of aging. Perhaps the most irritating thing during this ordeal was the pre-recorded voices that chirped ‘please proceed to cashier 3 please’, ‘please proceed to cashier 6 please’ in alternate male and female voices, both of which were pronounced with a false brightness that made Bev believe: ‘I am in hell’.
A loud crash broke the hostile silence – a large plinth had collapsed to the ground, spewing forth a variety of festive detritus. The elderly man who had narrowly missed an appointment with his maker exclaimed to all those that would listen, “That was a deliberate attempt on my life!”
Bev shrugged. The old man had a point. Perhaps it was. The Post Office obviously could not keep up with the demand and had to control crowds somehow.
Several hours later, Bev stumbled out of the Post Office. Sweet freedom at last. Next year she’d use pigeons.
