Interesting, these new anxieties we have now, that were unthought of in the olden days. For example the anxiety about whether not your package will fit into the large letter slot at the post office, or if it will have to go as a small parcel, incurring an extra charge. Anyway, I took four packages, all situated in that anxiety-inducing no-man’s land, to the Post Office. It’s my nearest branch, rather than the one in the converted church that doubles as a cafe, creche and abattoir. This branch is run by a pair of bald, stout brothers, efficient and reasonably friendly, but a little pompous. You get the impression they think they were intended for slightly better things, and they’re probably right.
So the first three packages just make it through the large letter slot, although I can’t help but inhale helpfully as they do so. The final one is larger, but softer. It gets about half way through. The brother looks at me, sadly.
‘Can’t you, er, squidge it,’ I say. So it gets through the …’ I’m going to say slot, but this now suddenly strikes me as faintly obscene. Not the sort of thing to say in front of this dignified couple. I fish for an alternative. There’s nothing there. Cavity? Worse. Cleft? Insane. I feel the sudden irresistible pull of ‘vagina’. Yes, I’m going to cry out in the post office for this dignified plump, middle aged man to cram the package into the vagina. But, no, it’s OK. ‘Orifice!’ I say, beaming.
The man nods, pleased, I think that he’s found himself running the sort of post office where his customers use words like orifice. He squidges the package, and it slides through. All is well.