A curious envelope appeared in our mailbox this past Tuesday. The handwriting was large and clear, but unfamiliar to me. (NOTE: I purposely blurred part of the address for this story). Interestingly, it was postmarked December 7, 2007.
Upon opening it, I soon discovered that it was in fact a Christmas card from my nephew and his wife in London.
ENGLAND. THE UNITED KINGDOM.
Um. Okay. Then why the heck did it have "Missent to Bermuda" stamped on it?
Well, they both DO end in "da"...
I can just imagine the scene: the tiny, ancient Royal Mail© Post Office depot in Muswell Hill, North London. Inside, two senior mailsorters slowly sift through the immense Christmas workload scattered all around them:
"Blimey, Jasper.... will ya look at this..."
"This 'ere letter. Where the 'eck is "Canada" anyways?"
"I 'aven't the foggiest... but it rhymes with Bermuda. Close enough, innit?"
"Brilliant! Off you go, then." Alfie dumps the envelope into the bag headed south.
"Jolly good" Jasper adds, kicking a parcel clearly labelled FRAGILE out of his path as they depart for afternoon tea. *
I guess it could have been worse. It could have reached us sometime over the next few months after circuitous travels to Barbuda, Grenada, Rwanda and Uganda.
(And yes, I DID look those up as a matter of fact. Do you really think I knew that list by heart?)
My next question is, are there so many things mistakenly sent to Bermuda that they actually need a RUBBER STAMP to deal with them all?
So it took 66 days for it to reach us.
Perhaps next winter I can mail myself by Royal Mail and have a great vaca on the beaches of Bermuda for only 78 p.
*With apologies to my UK friends. Actually, I am making fun of Postal Workers, not the British. No apologies to my Postal Worker friends are necessary, because you guys would NEVER be able to figure out where I live to inflict any physical retribution anyway.
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