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I have in my hand a piece of paper...
Today we learned that Royal Mail loses sixteen million letters a year.
Not so long ago it was losing twenty-four million. Why this disgraceful slackening-off?
‘It ain’t easy losing twenty-four million letters,’ yawned Barry Narcolepsy, a Royal Mail spokes-incompetent, when he could be arsed. ‘This is a small island. We’re running out of wrong places to put them.
‘The interior of Nelson’s Column is already full, as is every disused coalmine in the Midlands.
‘Ten years ago we hollowed out Ben Nevis, but these days it’s packed to bursting with unsolicited mailshots for cable liposuction.
‘We’ve been reduced to using the abdomens of public figures such as Clarissa Dickson-Wright and Charles Clarke, who can’t expand indefinitely, though it may appear otherwise.
‘If people in shared houses and flats stopped aiding us by building gigantic heaps of wrongly delivered letters instead of putting them back in the post, we’d be done for.
‘When you think about some of the mail we prevented from arriving – A L Rowse’s Order of Merit, Rod Stewart’s marriage proposal to Barbara Woodhouse, the manuscript of Vernon Kay’s first novel, all those bundles of hundred-pound notes dispatched to Toasty Lundqvist by eccentric billionaires – well, does anyone want to live in a country like that, apart possibly from Toasty Lundqvist?’
VICUS SCURRA said…
If you feel that strongly about it, why don't you send them a letter?
TOASTY replied…
I did, but it ended up in Polynesia, where a tribe now worships it as a god.
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