My postal carrier is work-minded, always looking at the letters in her charge, shuffling them, sorting as she glides along her rounds. She wears glasses. She strikes me as a tough young woman, no-nonsense, matter-of-fact. Perhaps it's just the multiple ear-piercings.
God knows what she must think of me, the person receiving mail at my address. Every couple of weeks, a small, plain, brown-wrapped parcel appears in my mailbox, frequently from England. She must think I have some strange, Britporn fetish (if there is such a thing). Frigid ladies, descended from royalty, with questionable dental hygiene. Bangers and mash. A li'l o' th' ol' Bubble and Squeak, wot?
The reality couldn't be more prosaic. I buy books on the internet. I buy books on the internet like some women buy shoes, or some men buy tools. Not necessarily old books or rare books, but books specific to my affliction: a few journals with articles about Mr. Reed; books in which he's mentioned or cited; a couple of old, mouldering Army manuals. Like the one which arrived today:
Still, there is something magical and romantic about the words Par Avion. I have a history of developing crushes on waitresses, too. It must be the service industries. I can delude myself into thinking they like me, simply because they bring me things. Coffee. Mail. Pizza. Books.
