My local post office

I’ve been having troubles with the drive band of my spinning wheel.  It had a piece of string for a drive band when I got it and one of the first things I had found it necessary to do was shorten it.  I think it had been in use for some time and had stretched too much so that the tension could not go any tighter.  But then this band became pretty lousy – slipping all the time.  Mum had already ordered me a band from the Sickingers, and said last week that she’d mail it to me.  I asked her to send it to my post office box.  My street box is tiny, so the postie bends everything he puts in it, and the mail gets very wet if it rains.

So having gone back to school on Monday, the spinning wheel was not exactly top of my list.  I forgot I was expecting the drive band in the mail.  So it was a bit of a surprise while speaking to Mum on the phone last night when it dawned on us that it hadn’t arrived yet.  Erm, what’s my PO Box number Mum?  It transpired that my (normally extremely accurate) Father had supplied the box number.  The WRONG box number.  Bummer.

So I went to the post office after School.  I queued up, and when I got to the front I explained that I have my PO Box number, but my silly Mother had mailed me something to a box number that differs in one digit by mistake, and could he possibly check this wrong box for a letter addressed to me?  To my amazement he did go check.  To even greater amazement – the letter was there and he gave it to me!  He said it was such a good story he decided to go along with it.  I’m fairly sure he actually checked my box was in the name I gave – he was gone for quite long enough to do so.  I offered ID as proof but he didn’t want to see it (I am in there frequently to collect items that were too large for the box, so he knows my face).

My local post office is wonderful.

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