POSTIE'S DISPATCH
The sorting table at dawn
Postie arrives before the world is properly awake, and finds it much improved for his absence of company.
Half past five and the sorting room was mine alone, which is exactly how a sorting room ought to be. No chatter, no radio, no one leaning on the table asking questions about the weather they could simply look out of a window to answer.
I like the quiet clack of envelopes finding their piles. I like the smell of paper and wax before the day has had a chance to interfere with it. There is a particular satisfaction in laying out a round in the correct order while the gulls on the harbour wall are still arguing about nothing in particular, as is their habit.
Someone had left the good pen out of its holder again, which I corrected, and a stack of parcels leaning at an angle that offended me, which I also corrected. By the time the first van doors started slamming outside, everything was precisely where it should be, and I was able to adopt the look of a bird who had simply arrived and found it that way.
They think the early start is a hardship. It is not. It is an inheritance. The table is at its best before anyone else has had the chance to think they understand it, and I intend to keep it that way for as long as they'll let me hold the keys.