A letter from my Mother arrived yesterday. A Christmas card. It had been opened. This is not the first time, and has been going on for the last twelve months. Every letter or birthday card from my Mother in Claverdon, England, has arrived with seals peeled back, envelope flaps torn and marks on the contents. No other post from the UK arrives in this condition. I have spoken to my Mother about this matter on the phone, and last year forbade her to send anything of any importance of value, like documents or birthday money. I’ve even lodged formal complaint.
Despite the fact that my writings contain accounts of how the future EU morphs into a hideously theocratic regime that can only exist by murdering millions of dissidents and converting them into foodstuffs, or how said regime murders the British Royal family, I do not think that I’m on any kind of security ‘watch list’. Instead I prefer to think that one of the Postal employees covering the Claverdon area in Warwickshire is a light fingered tea leaf looking for easy pickings from old ladies sending letters to their sons in far off lands.
Newsflash; there are no pickings, all funds transfers are electronic, and all important documents get hand delivered by friends and family coming to and from Canada, because we don’t trust the UK Post Office any more.