Saturday, 13 February 2016

A Sixties PostOffice - Back To The Archive backlog

patience you must have my young padawan

The post office is in the middle of the high street and the high street is in the middle of a Saturday afternoon.

The post office is open.

People are going in and out of the post office.

There are solid stone steps to take you from the street to the inside, but you have to pass through thick oak doors.

The doors are varnished and there is a big brass handle that you must use to pull open the doors.

The mother pulls open the doors; the doors are heavy - but the mother is strong. Her son watches her and knows it to be true; he has tried pulling those doors.

The inside of the post office is monumental, just like the steps and the door and in the centre of the open space are monumental tables.

The son has to climb on the chair to see the surface of the table.

There are rows of ink pots.

Filled with ink.

Someone takes time to make sure they are full.

On each table, in front of each inkpot there is a pad of blotting paper.

In each inkpot there is a pen and nib.

The mother uses one to write the addresses on the envelopes of the letters she wishes to post and then she turns them face to face with the blotting paper.

She blots.

This is not something we say very often today is it?

The son takes one of the pen and nibs and tries writing his name on the blotting paper.

This is not easy; the ink drains from the nib quicker than he can write and a large circular blot appears on the paper with his nib in the centre.

This is like magic so he tries again.

Then he notices that the blotting paper is full of mirror words.

Half hidden mirror words.

Secret language.

Secret codes.

There is treasure here.


London Joe said...

Fab sense memory here.
I was always frustrated because the desks at my primary school all had inkwells. Some even had the ceramic pot for the ink, with the hole in the lid / top.
But the ink days had just past. We had to bring bottles of Quink: messy.
Paul Pinch has - cartridges. Papermate? Schaeffer? Parker sets? The heavy doors were just made to keep us kids down and make us fear our mums with their Popeye forearms. My mum gave me clips round the ear and whacked me with the wooden hand brush when "her hand hurt". My brother got whacked tens times more than I did . He birthday on Tuesday: think I'll get her a hamd brush to use of my Dad. His fault she was mean to us...

What have you stirred up in me ?

popps said...

I'm not sure but you 've reminded to say a happy belated birthday day to yourself!