A Brief Involuntary Flight

The rain came in sideways today, which I consider an underhand sort of weather, as if it had not decided whether it was rain or a personal attack.

I was midway along the front with the satchel at a respectable weight when a gust got underneath me. I want it noted I did not flap in alarm. I rose, briefly, in a manner some might call undignified and I prefer to call responsive. There was a moment, perhaps two seconds, where I achieved considerable height over the harbour wall and had an excellent view of the whole round laid out below me, which I shall not pretend I did not enjoy.

I came down again near the bollards, satchel intact, hat somewhat reconsidered on my head. A woman walking a very small dog said well I never, and I agreed with her, because what else is there to say.

I dried off under the eaves of the old bakery and resumed the round with my usual composure, as if nothing at all had happened, because as far as the public is concerned, nothing had.

The letters were unharmed. That is the main thing. A postman may be tossed about by the elements now and again, but the post itself must arrive dry, dignified, and entirely unaware of the drama involved in its delivery.