Posttraumatic stress disorder

The midday wander in search of a natural-lit blip, rather than late night filler takes me to a dejected looking metal box.

I am fascinated by largely unseen inner workings, hints of intelligence, it's stoic resistance to an earlier, almost entirely-unprovoked onslaught. I am distressed by my inability to learn past it's solid mecanics, to understand the complexities, to gain access to it's inner POBox secrets, to finally work out where the '5' goes.

There is something magnificent about the noble post box.. and while they haven't been sold for metal scrap, to pay for the Thatcher funeral or the Queen's yacht, I celebrate their squat, gullible dignity. Hoorah. But like Jake Thackray's Billy Kershaw (from the Ballad) I shall do my own underdog championing. Not neat or clean my envelope eating warriors, no. Distressed, damaged, gaping lumps of old-school message transit system, with their dials in disorder and. painted.. (the alternate title of the piece): Pillar-Box Riot.

I do not have an OCD over tidiness. I just wanted to clear that up.