Thank you mailman for the mail.

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I’m in my bath. The mail dropped onto the wood floor like a dead seagull. A mix of flutter and thud. Of light and heavy.

Like life – or at least like parts of life.

Some day quite soon I will be dead. I won’t need any more mail. But the mail will keep coming. Mail drags its feet behind death like a reluctant child in a shopping mall.

There will be mail from the Co-op. 6 months after I’m dust. Telling me about how marvellously and sensitively they will handle my funeral. A loved one will pick it up.

How much of a mess will I have left a loved one to clear up? More than I could have done. More than I should have done. Will he or she throw the mail from the Co-op, or the taxman, or John Lewis in the bin? Will they write a grumpy mourner’s letter ‘for your information, he’s dead’? Will they laugh and write something funny and sardonic about it - or tell their friends in the pub? A mix of light and heavy.

There are people I only shared sex with when we were both too drunk to do it justice. There is awkwardness after but there remains a special relationship. Been there, done that. Seen you foolish sweating naked and impotent. Many years later, if we meet, we both remember but we don’t mention it.

Robin Millar

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