It was wild, wet and windy outside yesterday so Mr B and I enjoyed what we like to call a “Drawbridge Day.” I have told you about these days before - when there really is nothing for it but to pull up the metaphorical
drawbridge and make the most of being indoors.
Of course over the last six months and more, we have grown horribly accustomed to being stuck indoors, obeying the
rules of Lockdown and shielding. The difference is that a true Drawbridge Day is one you have entered into by choice because, quite frankly, there is nowhere else you would rather be.
I didn’t even have to venture out to the shops because I had the best excuse for staying in - the district nurse was due to call sometime to inspect a sore on Mr B’s leg and I needed to be in when she called. We turned
on the gas fire, not because we were particularly chilly but because every Drawbridge Day is all the better for being surrounded by a warm glow.
was as fortunate as we were. Take our postman, for example. He always knocks on our door so hard that it’s a bit like machine gunfire. This always leads Mr B to shout out for me to attend to our noisy visitor, just in case I haven’t heard him though,
heaven only knows, I would have to be as deaf as a whole line-up of fence posts to miss him. This is no criticism of our postman who is the most cheery of fellas. He is almost certainly the kind of person who wakes up every morning and jumps out of bed announcing
to Mrs Postman: “Another day at work, pounding the pavements! I can’t wait to get started!”
Even the weather can’t bring him down.
There he was on our doorstep yesterday morning, grinning at me from underneath a floppy hat from the brim of which raindrops cascaded steadily down onto his shoulders. He was wearing shorts (presumably because it is easier to dry off bare legs than sopping
wet trousers) and a red post office jacket which looked as if it had been plucked from a swimming pool. Incidentally, when did postmen stop dressing like Postman Pat? I need to know.
“Letters!” he announced, handing three missives over into my eager hands. “I’ve been trying to keep them all dry for you,” he explained, showing me the plastic bag in which my letters had been nestling
before I came to the door. Then off he went again, wading to the garden gate in heavy duty boots and waving his goodbyes over his shoulder as he went.
once our mail looked rather interesting. There was a large brown envelope containing October’s issues of The Sporting Pink and with them the promise of some entertainment as we tried to guess who was who in the Picture Challenge and answer at least three
of the ten questions in the Quiz. A slim, white envelope contained a letter from Mr B’s sister who wants to come visiting - Mr B beams at the thought. Okay, so the third envelope is from the BBC informing us that we now need to start paying for our TV
licence again - but two out of three isn’t too bad after all.
Maybe that’s why our postman is such a cheery chappie - he knows that, among the bills
we need to pay, the catalogues we haven’t requested, the leaflets offering us cut-price pizzas which we will probably never order, the requests from hard-pressed charities which we will agonise over because we can’t afford to support all of them,
there will be letters bringing us moments of pure pleasure.
I hope it wasn’t too long before he delivered his last letter yesterday, before he returned home
to Mrs Postman (or whoever else was waiting for him with warm towels and a cosy dressing gown), before he was able to pull up the drawbridge for the day.
deserved a Drawbridge Day, it was surely him.