The last delivery and the walk home

The last letter of the day went through a brass flap so stiff it fought me for it, and I won, as I generally do. There is a particular satisfaction to a final delivery. The satchel goes light. The shoulders go back. A working gull is entitled to a bit of swagger at that point, and I took mine.

I did not go the short way home. I never do. The short way is for gulls with nowhere to be and nothing to be proud of. I went along the front, past the harbour wall, past the boats sitting there doing absolutely nothing useful, and let the wind have my feathers for a minute, since it clearly wanted them.

The tide was out and the light was doing that low gold thing it does, and I stood on the railing for a while looking important, which cost nobody anything and improved the view considerably. A couple of gulls further down the wall watched me go by without a bag between them. I did not say anything. My posture said it for me.

Home eventually, cap off, satchel hung on its hook. A round finished properly is its own reward, though I would not say no to a biscuit on top of it.