You may or may not have heard but there's a postal strike in Northern Ireland. I think today is day eighteen and they're threatening to carry it on until the end of March. It's unofficial and not endorsed by the union so I have no idea what they're living off.
People aren't able to send cheques through the post. The economy is going to suffer. Some people have headed across the border to post things that need sent urgently but it's scores of miles from here.
I'm waiting for things to arrive but, even if it ends soon there's going to be a huge backlog. I'm not even going to get into that fact that my birthday is in eleven days and post cards I get come through the post.
There's an advertisement on television about not fearing the postman but the postmen will have to fear me if I get my hands on them.
Okay, Andrew turned up on the doorstep a while ago to explain why he hadn't picked me up this morning. The reason: his car caught fire. A slight problem when we were going to being travelling in it. It's in being fixed now but if it hadn't been a genuine reason I think it would have been the best excuse I'd heard in a long time.
My DI was supposed to pick me up at 10:30am this morning but he didn't show up. I sat at the window watching for him for the whole hour but there was no sign of him, just the same three silver cars that kept driving up and down the street. Phoning proved unhelpful and now I'm wondering if he forgot all about me, wrote down a diiferent date in his diary than on my appointment card or if something bad has happened. Hopefully I'll know more later.
My little Jezebel arrived last night. I can't say much about her because she's supposed to be a secret from my closest friends until they get home for easter. Still, I love her already.
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