The postman

The postman was a very important person in my life -- when there would be letters replyig to job applications, exam result slips, exciting letters from friends overseas, sometimes even a parcel (!) -- compared to the mostly bills of today. Well, actually he or she is still an important person today but I can't place a face to any of them as I hardly bump into them.

In my childhood days, the postman would be dressed in khaki-coloured uniform, riding a red bicycle. He would crashed onto our gate (maybe his brake wasn't working too well, and there was a little slope from the road to the gate) and slot the letters into our letterbox. He would then ring his bell to alert us to collect the mail (as though the "crash" wasn't loud enough) before he back his bike out -- and crash into the next gate. Delivery was twice a day, around 11am and 4pm, if I remember rightly.

If there were registered mail, he would let himself in through the side gate and gave us a surprise by suddenly appearing at the window, peering in. Spotting one of us, he would grin and hand us the registered mail and a receipt to be signed. On hot days, mum would ask me to offer him a cold drink. He would thank us profusely, mopping his brows.

At times when there were no letters for us or for our neighbours, you could see him soaring down the road, probably enjoying the breeze in his face. I had never seen a woman postman though, in my childhood.

Nowadays, there are quite a few woman postmen. In fact, those whom I have seen at my block, inserting etters into boxes with much alacrity, were all women. And of course, they don't ride bicycles anymore.

Here's a song we learnt in primary school, in celebration of our hardworking postmen:

I like to be a postman
I wake up with the sun
And on my back
I'd carry my sack
And onwards
I would go

The cat who loves fresh laundry

I must rub my hair on all these nice, clean laundry....

The moment I dump the content of my laundry basket onto the bed after a trip from the washing machine, guess who will be lolling on them. Never fails to happen. Only clean laundry, mind you, not dirty ones before washing.

Lost keys

Twice, I saw them -- resting on the bus stop seat -- forlornly. Both times, people were sitting respectfully about a foot away from the keys, with expressions that said "Nope, not mine." The first time, at the bus stop near the Zion Road food centre, it was a singular key with no chain or anything else attached (looked to me like a house key, oh dear). The second time, at the bus stop near my house, it was a bunch, including something that looked like a key to a cabinet.

What do you do with them? Take them to the nearest police station? But would they find their owners? I had vision of the police testing the key on all the households in the vicinity and finally exclaiming, "Aha! This one fits! Yoohoo, come and get your lost key, ye occupant of the house!"

Maybe should take the key and place an ad in the papers: "Please claim your key from.... Found at..."

The elderly couple who was seated at the Zion Road bus stop said wisely, "Leave it here. The owner may come back and look for it."

Anyway, it is always better to lose a key than to lose a wallet. You can always call the locksmith. Some are on service 24 hours. But they charge a bomb.