“Tsk” tuts Rachel, my wife. “Bloody post’s getting later all the time.” It’s true, it has gradually been clunking through the letterbox later and later over the last few years, so that we’re now lucky to get any mail before lunchtime.
Do I care? Not really. Should I? Probably, though I can’t really bring myself to ascribe much importance to such a minor facet of my life. It’s not that I’m lazy; I never have been. In fact, I’m the total opposite:
