Those pillars of establishment, more grenadier than flag of Mao, they stand as British as Big Ben, outlived the kiosks, Button B, then STD and calling cards.
Through Wilding, Machin, Queen’s design in seventy years of colour schemes, the passport stamp, collection point, as global first, no nation named - a noted pride, philatelists.
To feed the mouth, kids lifted up, its menu card, white metal plate. Nostalgia recalls second post, a mat drop early afternoon; delivery now rates by class.
But messages, sealed with a kiss, are read by me, more sixty on, the copperplate grandfather wrote, the spider scrawl from long gone gran, Dad’s script, italic, blue-black ink.
When mother passed she left boxed mail, from courtship years, ‘to be destroyed’, endearment’s pleasure, later years, but not for sharing, family; how sad today, sexting, FB.
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