The Covid-ridden Barnet Post Office has erratic opening hours. It was closed for two days before Christmas, open for two hours one day, closed again for two days... you'd think they'd realise that wearing masks might stop them infecting each other. The maskless woman behind the counter looked really offended that I was standing two metres back from her when I posted a parcel the other day. For them there is no pandemic, just individual infections with a mystery illness. Again. And Again. And again.
So we receive very little post. Every so often, even at this stage in January, a couple of Christmas cards appear. Offsprog Two's beautiful felt stuffed facsimile of her beloved cat, made to console Offsprog One, never arrived: we just have the photo. I ordered Darlene Love's autobiography, also for Offsprog One. Alibris very generously refunded me. It's probably at the bottom of a compost-heap of Christmas presents that remain undelivered.
This, however, arrived yesterday. What a triumph! I am so looking forward to listening to it. Maybe Subway Sect have their own postal service!