A frost, and some feet

The frost came in overnight, sly as you like, and laid itself over every slab on the front before I'd so much as had my breakfast. I stepped out the sorting office full of my usual purpose and very nearly went down like a sack of undelivered catalogues.

I will say this plainly, as someone who has walked this round in all weathers: webbed feet were designed for water, mud, and the occasional righteous puddle. They were not designed for frost. There is no grip to be had. A gull of my dignity ought not to be seen skating sideways past the chemist's with his wings out for balance, and yet there I was.

I persevered, obviously. The post does not care about the state of one's feet, and nor, frankly, should it. But I did adopt a new gait for the morning, a sort of careful shuffle, which I am told from a safe distance looked less like a postal professional and more like a man crossing a frozen pond who has heard a crack. I shall deny this if asked again.

By midday the sun had done its job and the pavements softened up and behaved themselves, and I delivered the rest of the round at my usual stately pace, feet fully restored to their dignity. But I shan't forget it. The first frost always thinks it's funny.