Please Mr Postman.

You know how it is when you’re hoping to get an email from some special person whose presence on the planet is of substantial import to you. You check your inbox in the morning, and then several times during the day, and again before you go to bed at night. And the sense of deflation grows with each empty inbox until you begin to grow weary of deflation.

And then expectation is relegated to hope, and hope is replaced by doubt, and doubt takes on the mantle of predictable resignation. The days grow into weeks and the weeks into months until resignation becomes a matter of routine. And then one day you open your inbox as usual and…

…nothing again.

‘Twas another gloomy day today. Do you know that here in the Shire we’ve had rain on thirty of the last thirty four days? The postman says he’s growing tired of the capricious nature of the British climate these days. (Only he didn’t use the word ‘capricious’, which is strictly a writers’ and clever clogs’ word.)

But at least the weather keeps me frequently closeted indoors, thus obviating the possibility of causing distress to any children, dogs, horses or damsels who might be perambulating the lanes and public footpaths of our little domain. I miss the bells, though. I need bells to give me a sense of purpose.

(Did you know that Quasimodo escaped the murderous mob at the end of Hugo’s classic? He expired peacefully from starvation wrapped in the arms of his beloved and very dead Esmeralda. Does that sound like a consummation devoutly to be wished?)