Please, Mr. Postman
I am always amazed at my own reaction to the sound of the postman’s footsteps on our driveway. It has been several years since postmen and postwomen were the sole channel for written communication with the outside world. In those days (yes, I do remember them), there was always a sporting chance that the daily post would contain goodies such as handwritten letters, useful information that was certainly not considered junk and, best of all, cheques. Now that we have email, texting, Facebook, Twitter and other such wonders, the postman’s visit promises bills, reminders of bank account-breaking appointments with the kids’ medical consultants, and little else. So why do I have this Pavlovian reaction of racing heart and the irresistible urge to go and check the post? The answer is in the question, I guess: conditioning. Now where are those biscuits?