Someone has stolen the roof from Bradley Farm
The sign above the door at MPC North Ltd says mpc north: managing people’s choices. The reception area is staffed by people in military fatigues with laptops on their knees.
At the static homes, a woman in an old fleece jacket with a wolf on it told me I was a good postman because she’d seen me pick up an elastic band I’d dropped. She told me that my colleagues just leave them on her path. The wolf woman’s friend—salmon pink anorak, big set platinum hair and a plastic rain hood—told me “Ignore her love, she’s like this” and the wolf woman said “No I’m not”.
At Mr Haigh’s, I had to step over a dead calf to get to his front door today.
An old Ford Ka pulled up next to me. In the front was a smartly dressed couple, he in a camel hair coat with suede collars and her with a tidy perm and large beads. In the back was another man in a beige anorak. They were all in their 70s—maybe 80s. The camel hair man driver wound down his window and spoke in a southern accent “it’s good to see a good healthy postman!”
I kind of nodded.
The man went on “I’ve got a man here...”
He gestured over his shoulder at the man in the anorak
“... and I’m bringing him to see his childhood... er... all the good people!”
I looked at the anorak man in the back; he was pulling faces at the camel hair man like a petulant teenager and mock punching the back of the driver’s seat.
“Bye bye!” said camel hair man, and they drove away.
“A load of poofs live there” the driver of the bin wagon said to me, pointing over to number 20. All the bin men laughed and said “see you mate” as they drove away.