I was sitting at my desk reading the latest reports on the mail service when there was a knock at the door.
"Come in" I said in a tone of seriosity, yet welcoming, a kind of Mitt Romney on Prozac voice.
In came young Smut Clyde, chief researcher of Riddled Mail Corporation ("Putting our stamp on history") and a person whose jib, we in management , had liked the cut of.
I gestured with my quill, "The jib, Smut".
He adjusted his lab coat "Sorry" he said "but we have great news on the Pigeon post"
"Oh good " I said, trying vainly to remember what he was talking about.
"Yes" he said, "we have trained the pigeons to return home after delivering letters. It was very hard to get them to carry the envelopes in their little paws"
I raised an eyebrow at him.
"What's wrong with your eye?" he asked.
"I was asking a question, non-verbally" I said.
"That's a good idea" he said "then I don't know what the question is and I can't answer."
"I thought that they carried little messages in leg bands" I opined.
He scoffed "Old technology, boss. The modern postal system is personalised, fast and guaranteed to not be undelivered in an ongoing sense."
"That is a good mission statement " I said admiringly "I suppose it means something?"
"I expect so" said Smut.
I remembered something that Mrs. Miggins had told me when she had brought in the "Tea and Sardines In One Cake" last week.
"What is the deal with the masks they wear?" I asked.
"Personalised" explained Smut "And helpful when the receipts from the sender is put into the voucher safe."
"The masks are all the same" I noted .
"Yeah, well Evangeline von Holsterin's vile nephew, Throgmorton, got them cheap from a V for Vendetta place, they shrunk in the moulder, he said" he said.
"Well young Smut, we look forward to a long and fruitful time in the mail business. In this case it will be good when the chickens come home to roost, eh"
"Oh yes, ha ha" said Smut and then looked fearful "Come home to roost. 'Scuse me!!" He ran outside and I heard him shouting to Greenish Hugh about "the bungee cords!"
Well, back to the grindstone. Mrs Kiwi's dressage Corgi dog was performing on the weekend and someone had to go and shine its collar.