Going Postal

My mailman hates me. Either that, or I still have a lot to learn about the "Royal Mail" system.

When I arrived here in London, my mailbox was full of what appeared to be junk mail for nearly every tenant of the last 20 years (see photo at right). I live in a corporate housing unit catering to expats - so it's very unlikely that Ms. Jacinta Allen, Mr. P Singh, or for that matter, The Occupier, are coming back to get their mail any time soon. Considering this, I tossed all of the stuff into the trash, ahem, rubbish, next to the mailboxes.

When I came home from work the next day I saw that my mailbox was once again filled with unwanted junk mail. Had spammers caught on to my whereabouts already? Those clever bastards. Nope. Upon closer inspection, I realized It was the same mail. Damn Jacinta Allen!

I figured that my mailman must have thought that I dispensed of the letters in error, so I gave him another shot by tossing them back into the trash again. At this point, I can imagine you're getting the hang of this. If you guessed that I returned home the following day to find the letters back in the #8 basket, you're on the right track. Who is this guy?

To avoid a standoff, I decided to tuck the letters safely away in my apartment until I move out. At that point, I'll probably toss them in the trash once again, leaving the subsequent fallout to the next tenant. Sucka!

Oh, and if Mr. P Singh is reading this, I think I have a chiropractor bill for you. My bad.