Members of the postal service are stealing my mail. I can picture them in their sorting office; first, a gentle flex of anything that looks like it may contain a birthday card with the assumption that it contains a tenner from a distant anonymous gran.
Flex…their luck’s in this time…their eyes narrow and a sly smile cracks across their face which they quickly stifle while simultaneously glancing over each shoulder in case a colleague or superior has noticed their suspicious behaviour. They let this card casually fall to the floor where their nifty boot quickly sweeps it discreetly into a dark corner of the sorting machine. It can later be reclaimed at a more opportune moment to claim their booty and spoil someone’s birthday as a bonus.
To thwart their larcenous schemes, I have taken to posting mousetraps and anthrax inside birthday cards addressed to myself …try spending that down the pub, you fuckers.
