Rover was just about to pick up the poo when the BFB flew over his head. Her shadow shot across the footpath.
‘Either that was a very fast cloud, or a big fat baby just flew over our heads,’ Rover said to Messi.
‘The postman’s bike is mucky,’ said Messi.
The postman was actually a woman. Her name was Etna Stamp and she was cycling past just as the BFB sailed over Rover and Messi.
Etna had had a rough day, so far. It had rained on her five times – so far – and a bulldog called Sweetie had tried to bite the back wheel off her bike. She’d had ten extra parcels to deliver to a woman who lived at the top of the steepest hill in Dublin. Her feet felt heavy and sore as she pushed the pedals of her bike.
The thing Etna liked most about her job was reading all the letters before she delivered them. She wasn’t being nosey and she never told anybody else what was in the letters.
If there was bad news in a letter, Etna would ring the doorbell, so she could chat to whoever was going to read the bad news. She would tell them that they were looking great or that their new jumper was lovely. To make them feel a little bit more cheerful before they read the bad news. Etna thought that this was the most important part of her job.
But she hadn’t been able to read the letters this morning. Because the post office kettle had been broken.
It was like this.
I know.
Who’s that?
The reader.
And what do you know?
How the post lady read the letters. She held the envelopes over the steam coming out of the kettle until, like, she was able to open the envelope without ripping it. Then she took the letter out and read it, like. Then she put it back in the envelope and closed it again. And, like, she waved the envelope around a bit, to dry it.
How did you know that?
I open my parents’ letters all the time.
OK.
Especially the reports from school, like.
OK.
And any letter that looks like it might have money in it.
OK. Anyway, Etna wasn’t happy. She was a nice woman but it hadn’t been a nice day. She was cycling on a flat piece of the road but, suddenly, it felt as if the bike was getting heavier. She had delivered all the post, so cycling back to the post office should have been easy.
But it wasn’t.
Etna’s legs were sore.
‘I’m getting old,’ she told herself, as she pushed her feet down on the pedals.
But Etna wasn’t getting old.
Well, she was. She was thirty seconds older than she had been when she’d cycled past Rover and Messi. But her bike didn’t feel heavier because she was getting older. Etna’s bike seemed heavier – Etna’s bike was heavier – because the BFB had landed on it. The BFB had dropped into the leather pouch where Etna carried her letters and parcels. Etna was cycling away with the BFB.
‘Goop!’ said the BFB.
But Etna didn’t hear her. Because Etna was a bit deaf.
What?
Etna was a bit deaf.
