"You hear laughter breaking through, it makes you want to fart. You’re heading for a breakdown, better pull yourself apart. " - John Cooper Clarke

My postman.

The postman that does the rounds in this area has to be the most miserable sod ever created.  He stands up to the typical ‘Belgian stereotype’: moody, silent and very, very Flemish.  Oh, and customer service?  Yes, well, I think that’s best left aside.

I dislike stereotyping any nationality, but whenever I do see groans and moans from expats about Belgians, my postman is the first person to come to mind.  He is also perhaps the only one seeing as the women at the post-office here appear to have got their act together and no longer refuse to speak French to me after a vain attempt at speaking Flemish which never results in very far other than “ik heb een letter voor Engeland…” and if I do manage better than that then they reply in full flow with the result of my asking them if they speak French or English (said in perfect Flemish).

No, my postman really takes the biscuit.  When it’s cold and wet, I can understand that he must be feeling pretty miserable as he cycles around these roads, and it must be even worse with this snow on the ground.  But each time I see him I do wave and wish him a good day – in French, admittedly, but this is a Commune de facilité which means that both languages are accepted.  And what does he do?  The man will glare at me as if I’ve just called him a wanking cock-sucker.

I even say it with a smile, and anybody that knows me knows that smiles are reserved for official occasions or for when a handyman has mended something for free after a rather melodramatic breakdown.

But not this postman.

I think the icing on the cake was when he knocked over my wheelie-bin.  Fair enough, Tatiana had put it right in front of the letterbox, but the bin wasn’t hiding my letterbox, it was perfectly visible and accessible.  But that wasn’t enough for old Grumpy – I saw him push my wheelie-bin right over onto my lawn.  How fucking juvenile is that?  But I still wish him a bonne journée whenever I see him, although why I bother is beyond me.

He doesn’t deliver letters until 1.30pm, if at all.

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