I was extremely concerned to read that the Post Office is thinking about closing lots of Post Offices.

This seems bizarre to me. If the Post Office close the Post Offices then they won’t have anything to do. They will just have to sit around all day, experimenting with queuing systems and stroking their black and white cats, like Bond villains but in a polyester blue uniform and with a crap bike.

Frankly, I think they would make very bad master criminals. Rather than just plant their thermonuclear device round the back of the Houses of Parliament they would expect the Government to make a special trip out to the depot in order to collect and sign for it, then they would go on strike at the first sign of a setback. If James Bond got captured, as he usually does, he would be able to save the world just by turning to his guards and suggesting a minor change in shift patterns.

The Village Post Office is nothing like this, and I would be very sad if it was sold and turned into a Starbucks. It is run by a very nice and helpful couple. The two regular posties are also very cheerful people who like a chat, despite me getting off on the wrong foot with the Lady Postman.

(Two years ago – I’d just moved in. I am chopping logs out the back, and hear the scrunch of gravel on the drive. I wander over, a huge axe slung over my shoulder.)

Her (brandishing post): “Good morning! Here is your post.”

Me (brandishing axe): “Thank you. You’ve just caught me! I’ve just been horribly murdering my wife!”

This was when I learnt my first small village lesson – people tend to talk.

No – if Mr Blair and his cronies try to shut the Village Post Office he will find trouble. I will mobilise public opinion, through this diary and via Sonia the traffic announcer who sends me secret messages in her bulletins (and who now works for BBC Norfolk).

I predict civil disobedience and mayhem.

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