Mr. Postman, bring me a clarinet.


Check out this sweet little unit.

That is an official Spanish mail truck.  A little zippier than the Canadian cargo-van version, don’t you think?

I didn’t see our postman for the first three years I lived here.   Instead of delivering my parcels, he just put the notice in the mail slot downstairs.  If he felt like it.  About every second parcel went missing.  Finally, we charged down to the post office to see who was wearing the maple leaf toques my Dad had sent for Christmas.

We didn’t see anyone sporting my Christmas presents, but we did have a chat with the management.  The next day, the mailman arrived at the door to repent.  All of a sudden, we had the best mail service on the planet.   Now, if the postman sees me in the street, he pulls over and hands me the mail personally.  We always get a toot and a wave when he speeds past on his scooter.

For my fortieth birthday I ordered a clarinet on-line. I figured that a trip to the post office would result.  A clarinet can’t fit in a Spanish mail truck, can it?

A few days later, Yago and I were at the playground.  Out of the corner of my eye I saw a yellow blur.  Then there was the screech of brakes.  The postman swerved into an illegal U-turn and sped towards us.  He popped a wheelie onto the sidewalk and delivered the clarinet right beside the swing set.

Now that is service.  Used instruments delivered to the monkey bars on a yellow scooter.  It ALMOST compensates for those lost toques.

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