in a novel by Douglas Adams.
I've just made the trek in driving snow to the postbox to post the same
letter for the 3rd time. It's not addressed to me, it's not my address on
the front but I keep getting the bugger back by return of post.
It now has three notes on it in increasingly vibrant colours and the
street and number written several times in larger and larger letters.
If I could get down there I would take the damn thing myself, it's on the
other side of the city. I've walked past it, I know the house, I could
tell
you the colour of the door that holds the letterbox that it should be in.
All this geographical knowledge obviously stops me ever holding a postion
within the post office!
The damn thing is the postal equivalent of a boomerang. I swear that if I
catch the sack weilding knuckle dragging monkey in a postal uniform at my
door with it on Tuesday I'm going to beat the bastard to death with it. In
years gone by I might have got up at the crack of dawn to catch him in the
act but now a cunning ambush only requires an inconvenient disturbance of
afternoon tea.
--
Stare too long into the abyss and the abyss looks like a nifty place to
hide the bodies
