The Singing Postman

I dress up in my V neck sweater and sometimes my Arran cardigan and she goes ape.  She doesn’t understand.  She wants me to listen to something that’s distorted and manic but I don’t like that old stuff.  I like the Singing Postie.

And the Singing Postie strolled into Fortnum and Masons, Uncle Tim was telling me on the phone, and I had to interrupt his larval flow and tell him he was lying because he’s dead and Tim said no, I’m talking about twenty years ago when I was working there on the tea counter.

My friend Will yelled stop talking to that bastard and come and entertain me I haven’t come over here to listen to one half of your conversation.

And I realise all he had taken in of what I told Tim is he’s dead and that was bothering him.

Who’s dead?

The Postie.

I know that.

Will and I sneak off.  We’re going to get a drink and something to eat. We go and listen to a tape that Will’s brought over with a song called Little Boxes but it isn’t what I like it’s depressing about people living in houses.

I’m putting on Val I said.  He keeps things cheerful.

I look around the room to try and find something to calm him down.  Look, I say, and throw him the cover of the Val cd.  Count the tracks.

Twenty seven! shouts Will.  Twenty seven tracks.  Then the door opens and in he comes.

You’re playing Val Doonican! shouts Morris.  What the fuck is the matter with you?

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