I have to tell you my life is full of wonderful surprises these days. I never know when one might be around the corner, ready to pop up and catch me off guard just when I am least expecting it. Take Mark, for example. Mark popped up when I was least expecting him to and as surprises go he is pretty wonderful – to look at. You see it turns out, Mark, that’s our new postman, is HOT. Please note the capitalisation.
“Why didn’t you tell me our postman was so HOT?” I said to Guido. What was wrong with him? Didn’t he know this was the most interesting thing to happen in our street since Ethel next door and her problem with the exploding hooch? Had he just gone blind or something? He was certainly shaping up to be a big improvement on our last postman who had a worrying likeness to Hellboy. “Let’s face it, with that body, why, we’re talking South London action city UK here.”
“He must be new I think. I hadn’t really noticed him,” said Guido scrambling some eggs. “But then, I suppose he isn’t really my type.” He stopped stirring for a moment. “As you know I am only attracted to men who are bitter and twisted.”
“And he is so very FIT,” I said. I was fanning my face with the envelope Mark had just personally handed me. As you can tell he is utterly professional. “I think it must be that heavy post bag with all of those letters in it. I can imagine how that must make him very HOT and sweaty, what with that tight fitting uniform he wears.”
“Yeah, you already said,” said Guido still scrambling and still stirring, “HOT, and FIT.”
Well since that first encounter Mark and I have really it off. Just to be friendly, when he was delivering the mail the next day, I asked him what his name was and he said Mark. “Oh, Mark?” I said, ” Just like a Post Mark! How very ironic – HA! HA! HA!” Then I did that charming thing I do where I throw back my hands and laugh at the same time. Mark laughed too but if I am completely honest it felt more like he was laughing at me rather than with me. I’m also not sure he knows what irony is so it may have been lost on him. I made a mental note to make our early morning brief encounters more fun in the future.
Then the next day, as if things couldn’t get any more exciting in the Royal Mail stakes, it turned out that someone had sent Guido a leg of lamb by Recorded Delivery. This meant somebody would have to sign for it. Imagine my luck. Guido was in the café kitchen wrestling with pancake batter so obviously I was happy to step in. All I had to do was scribble my name, right? Well it turns out Mark can be highly fastidious. It ended up like a re-enactment of signing the Magna Carta. He had one of those machines where you write your name but no matter how hard you try it still looks like a five year old has just used an etch-a-sketch. He looked at my signature, “Thanks a lot, Mr, er,” he squinted, “Mr Jalopy Pizza.”
I do like to make a good impression.