The Lost Codger

The last few days have been really hot here in the UK. The heat has been so unbearable and sometimes it’s worse in the evenings. Due to this, I have been somewhat lacking in sleep. Going to bed without anything on seems to help a bit, but not much.

The doorbell woke me up this morning, which only meant one thing; the postman had a parcel for me to sign for, otherwise he normally wouldn’t bother.

I live in a three-storey flat. The main entrance is on the ground floor, my kitchen and living room on the first, and my bedroom on the second.

Now still being in bed, I have two options: I can ignore the postman, stay in bed and schedule a re-delivery with the post office. OR, I could get up, put some pants on, fumble all the way down to the ground floor and sign for my parcel.

With some unknown powers that be, I decided to do the latter. I realised the postman wasn’t going to wait all eternity for me to come down and open the door. So there I was, half-awake, with only one eye opened, reaching around frantically for my clothes. With a bit of luck, I manage to find my briefs… and… nothing else.

The postman rang the doorbell again. It’s standard procedure to ring the doorbell a second time before moving on to the next premises. I knew this and thought I’d better get myself down there pronto.

The problem was, I was still half-dazed…. and half-naked.

“Perhaps the postman won’t mind”, I thought to myself. Mampuslah.

So I quickly went down two flights of stairs like a drunken Irish, grabbed my house keys and waddled my way right up to my front door. Through the glass window, I could see a blurred image of a person in a blue shirt i.e. standard postman uniform.

“Yup, that’s definitely the postman”, I reassured myself.

I was scratching my chest as I opened the door, with both my eyes still squinting as they were still not adjusted to the morning sunlight.

“Good morning, could I have your signature on line four and five please,”

That didn’t sound right. The voice seemed a tad higher-pitched than usual. It then occurred to me that it wasn’t the postman. Nope. It was a postwoman (what else do you call a female postman?).

Realising the door was wide open and I was just in my briefs in the presence of a woman, I quickly hid myself behind the door, only exposing my head.

“Err.. good morning. Which lines again?”, I queried as I grabbed the pen and consignment papers from her.

“Four and five…”, her eyes suddenly became larger for some odd reason.

So I put down my John Hancock and hastily returned the pen and papers back to her. She slowly handed me my parcel. For some reason her face seemed a bit flushed. I wonder why.

“Have a good day sir”, she smiled sheepishly and went on her way, before I could even reply.

As I closed the door and went back into my flat, I just realised one thing; when I was hiding behind the door, my chest was pressed against the glass window.

She must have had an eyeful.

I hope that made her day.

Bleh.