A fight in the Post Office during my lunch hour. So rude.
Don't they know that people are in a hurry between 12 and 1? It is bad enough on a normal day.
Usually a careful mental calculation of 'is it it pension day?' or 'last day to get your car tax this side of legal?' means that the queue will only be halfway around those stupid barriers that are designed to fool only the idiot. I can count. I know that there are twenty-three people in front of me and no amount of wiggly nylon is going to dupe me into thinking that I haven't got to wait for at least half my lunch hour.
Oh yes, the fight. It would have been even more dramatic if I wasn't trying to avoid the unpleasant odour that was emanating from the festering human in front of me. Suffice to say that the badly dyed blonde was having a go at the equally tastelessly coiffed brunette about a stolen boyfriend (he was probably better off without the pair of them). The spat peaked with a poorly aimed stiletto heel grazing a leg that should never really be seen in the light of day.
The staff were looking nervous. Not sure why, because they are holed up safely behind their bullet proof glass with a nice red panic button to keep them company. The people on the 'dangerous' side, had to make do with shuffling about on the spot or trying to breathe in some fresh air.
Anyway, the blonde limped off and the brunette sat in the photo booth, screamed into her mobile and I watched the clock. Twenty-six minutes of queuing, still six people to go, and it looked as if one of the staff was about to desert her post. I groaned.
No, no, I was saved. The woman who was next had forgotten her purse and the suit behind her had run out of time. I was next.
I presented my parcels.
"One airmail, States, and the other is inland, large letter rate please".
"Large letter?" he smirked "I will have to check...."
I raised an eyebrow and tapped a fingernail on the counter.
"Yes, yes, of course." he said "No problem."