Dear – young – Postman,
Contrary to what you might think, I don’t actually stand just inside my front door all day long. I know I should really, in case you come scratching. (What’s wrong with the doorbell? The sound of it carries further than that scraping sound on wood.) Knocking impatiently does not enable me to move faster.
I’m a slow mover at the moment – as you noticed – and due to my dodgy knee I’ve sort of rationed my journeys in-house. I save up several things I want to do upstairs, or in the basement, before I change floors.
So I had just made it down below when I had to dash as fast as I’m currently capable of dashing. I thought I wasn’t doing badly up those stairs, but I arrived finding something halfway in and halfway out, with you pushing and pushing to get it through the letterbox.
I opened the door explaining that I was unable to run any faster, only to be told you didn’t need me to come because it was halfway through. Yeah? So maybe not bother scratching next time? Although I sincerely hope my usual postman will be back when the next book arrives.
That was my eagerly awaited Angel you were shoving through my door. She’s quite nice and fat, which will be why she only went part of the way through.
And this morning I will not be in at all. I’ll be doing things to envelopes elsewhere.
Best wishes from the old witch at no. 20.