Letters From New Zealand - Special Delivery


2012 August— I’m not too sure if the paper delivery man thinks that I need the exercise, or whether he has been upset in some way, but his aim on some mornings is, to say the least, erratic.
There are some variations to his various pitches—the fast ball; which goes straight over the plate (the blue water-supply tap cover,) The curve ball; which is liable to finish against the neighbours front garden plot, and on the colder mornings, his favourite, the slider; which ends up under the hedge.
He doesn’t seem to display the same variations with the papers for the priest—the drive runs next to ours, and I have, in a moment of frustration, been tempted some mornings to whip that one instead, and leave him to seek divine intervention to locate the day’s news!

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