Frank Jobsworth, the postman, groaned as he emptied his sack, whilst Sybil Bellingham, the sub-Postmistress in the sleepy town of Gonad yawned and filed her nails with a stick of celery, wincing through boredom. “Must you make such a mess, Frank?”, Sybil complained, “I’ve had to clean up three times already today.” Frank gave a saucy grin and retorted, “You wouldn’t have it any other way, would you darlin’?” Sybil shot him a look of distaste and replied curtly, “I don’t really want it any way from you, Francis. You think you own the place, just because you oil my elbows from time to time… well, no more. You will tidy up after yourself in future, no excuses.”
Frank, quite visibly deflated, mumbled his apologies and started clearing up the dreadful mess he’d made. Sybil, noticing that Frank looked like a Vicar who had been caught eating too much asparagus, felt a pang of guilt. This was, after all, her best postman, who was better than any other worker she knew at posting all kinds of things… he never got the wrong address like the other posties – and, of course, he always bought her fresh cauliflower every morning without fail. “Frankie”, called Sybil, “I’m sorry, honey, I shouldn’t have been so grumpy – I appreciate you, you know.” Frank smiled and slipped Sybil a cheeky wink, “I know, darling, it’s not your fault, it’s mine. Sometimes I think that I’m a Kestrel, but it transpires that I’m just an ordinary old Sparrow. The realization comes to us all. Some of us, like you, Sybil only see themselves as a Wren, whereas really you’re a bloody great Barn Owl.” Sybil flung her arms around Frank’s neck. “Oh, Frankie-wanky that’s the most wonderful thing anyone’s ever said to me!”, she exclaimed, “Will you marry me?” Frank looked overjoyed, “Oh Sybilly-wibbily, of course I will, my little stick of lavender incense, you’ll make me the happiest postman in the world!”
Wedding bells were heard in the not-so-sleepy town later that day, when the local pastor joined together Frank and Sybil, initially with superglue, but then they decided that marriage would be more conventional. They would have lived happily ever after, if Frank hadn’t have been caught licking honey from Mrs. Frobisher’s delightful honey-jar, but that’s another story… and really quite rude. Goodnight… sleep well children. Don’t dream of angry beards, for beards are wonderful things full of hair and should not be feared – unlike sandals which are implements of pure evil. I hate them so much, damn sandals. They’re all… wooden… and… strappy…. euugghhh, I hate them, I hate them, I hate them… Grrrr….