FOWC: Belong

FOWC: Belong

Post box plundering occurred a few months ago in Shrawley. In the dead of night the old wonderfully curvaceous pillar box red post box was dragged from its slumber, where it was resting on a mature contoured oak post, metal straps wrapped tightly around the wooden palisade. The column ripped from its earthy bed, and dragged to an unknown future. All that remained was a hole the verge and desperate tyre tracks skewered across the road way.

No one knew where the post box had gone, there were no ransom notes, no indications; a search of eBay showed post boxes but not the Shrawley box. It was probably stolen to order like a Picasso or the Scream by Munch. 

A few months passed and the postman sadly nodded when asked if it was lost forever, there will be another he said, but when he didn’t know.

Then just early this week a blindfolded postbox appeared, completely out of the blue, or red, on a stout black rigid erect steely rod. Blindfolded and positioned in its new home, forever to look out over the old pub, now converted and purchased by someone who doesn’t seem to want to enter into village life (thats another issue), I think I wrote a post sometime, way back, regarding his and my tastes in music and where they clash; mine are infinitely superior, That is a Fact of the Day, mixing it up with Fandango!

Anyway this morning, as I came to the post box, saw it in its scarlet splendour, sporting a royal crest, stencilled writing, sharp edges, still the removable day tag, older, no need to replace them, the dates of collection and times collected. Proud and statuesque, bold and property of the Royal Mail. A Standard in a country that has gone quite clearly insane in this day of Brexit Chaos.

Back to where it belongs (I had to add an s).


  1. Hilarious. There’s British eccentricity and then there’s a Britain gone bananas. I’m not surprised at anything anymore. In my 20s, I wrote a poem called “Nationwide Nervous Breakdown”. I thought thing were crazy then, but little did I know? I’ve no idea where the poem is now or what I said in it. It was bound to be darkly wry, as all my writing was at that time!

    Liked by 1 person

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