The Postman Always Rings Twice

I glance out of the window. This is not strictly true; glancing implies a casual, quick, short look. I am staring intensely, with a mixture of hope, disappointment and frustration, at the large box that collects my post. It is, as usual, empty. The box, fixed to the door-post, is large for good reason; the Israel Postal Company, better known as Israel Post, makes very infrequent visits to keep me posted. When the postman does call, there is a thick wad of accumulated letters, bills and circulars.

The weather today is stormy: I hope that my postman is well; I don’t want to hear that ‘My postillion has been struck by lightning’. I certainly wouldn’t attend the post mortem.

Recent experience is not encouraging. A letter from my bank, asking me to visit, post-haste, to deal with a postdated cheque, took nearly two weeks to cover the couple of kilometers to my house.

While I am waiting, I play a little music. Some Post Malone, an American rapper, singer, and songwriter, although not enjoyable, seems appropriate. Luckily, I am as deaf as a post, so the music is not too painful. With nothing better to do, I think about the letter ‘o’ in the word ‘post’. It is, of course, Post-consonantal, as it comes after a consonant.

Another, almost furtive, look at the post box; still empty. I open my Facebook and look to see if I have a Dark post. These are ads that only appear in the newsfeeds of a selected set of users. I need to see them as they arrive; I don’t want to be pipped at the post.

The waiting is beginning to get to me. I feel that I am being dragged from pillar to post. To pass the time, I make a shopping list on a Post-it Note. I am not too careful; I can always make some post factum changes.

Another look through the window at the empty box; I am almost ready to desert my post. Perhaps it is time to lie between the four bed-posts that support the bed that supports me.

Suddenly, a flash of white catches my eye; yes, there is something in the box. I hurry to the door, open the box. To my horror, it is a newspaper, but not my beloved Times of Israel. No, it is the Jerusalem Post; who would want to read that?

About the Author
The author has been living in Rehovot since making Aliya in 1970. A retired physicist, he divides his time between writing adventure novels, getting his sometimes unorthodox views on the world into print, and working in his garden. An enthusiastic skier and world traveler, the author has visited many countries. His first novels "Snow Job - a Len Palmer Mystery" and "Not My Job – a Second Len Palmer Mystery" are published for Amazon Kindle. The author is currently working on the third Len Palmer Mystery - "Do Your Job".
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