The Post Office

While in the Post Office, the cashier asked me if I had life insurance?
Why, how ill do I look to you?” I asked. “I only came in to buy a stamp. I know that first class stamps are expensive but I wasn’t planning on letting the shock induce a heart attack.”
Or, I may have said…
“Just give me a leaflet and I’ll read it later.”
Once upon a time, a Post Office simply sold stamps, tv and dog licences, premium bonds and paid out pensions and benefits.
Back then, your worst experience would be to accidentally turn up on a pension day and wait behind the elderly as they shuffled along to get paid.
Nowadays, it is almost impossible to visit a Post Office without being asked if you want a phone and broadband package, a credit card or car, home, travel or life insurance.
And, if trying to sell you things for no apparent reason isn’t bad enough, the counters are filled with people seemingly unable to tell if they’ve filled in a passport application form correctly and paying for the privilege of having it “expertly checked” by “someone who sells stamps.”
Thankfully, passports last for ten years because if you stand behind 3 of these people in a queue, you may as well cancel your own summer holiday as you won’t be out of the Post Office until after Christmas.
But worse are the eBay generation. People who carry great hulking laundry bags filled with parcels, packets, envelopes and boxes, all of varying shape and size and all going to various countries and all having to be painstakingly weighed, stamped and sent individually.
Even the automated parcel weighing machine can’t deal with these people and screams for assistance.
Standing behind these people angers me so much, I get tempted to ask the cashier for one of their “Life Insurance forms” to give to these people before I “accidentally” kill them with a parcel.


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