A round lost to fog

The fog came in off the water before I'd so much as opened the satchel, and I'll say this for it: it had no respect whatsoever for a working gull's schedule.

Every house on the front looked exactly like every other house. Same grey stone, same net curtains, same smug little chimney pot. I stood at what I was fairly sure was number nine for a good while before a door opened on number three instead, which told me everything I needed to know about the reliability of doors in weather like that.

The gates were worse. I know that round the way I know my own tail feathers, and yet gate after gate had clearly wandered off in the night and come back in the wrong spot. One of them I walked into twice, which I do not intend to discuss further.

I got there in the end, because I always do, delivering by feel and memory and a certain amount of stern talking to myself. But I'll not pretend it was dignified. A postal gull ought to move through his round like a known fact, not stagger about a wall of grey muttering about gateposts.

Still. The letters got where they were going. That's the job, fog or no fog, and nobody out there need know how much of it I did by touch.