Mister Didsley pushed at the gate. Trembling inside out, he spied the door at the end of the path, longing to turn and run. A bulky parcel filled his arms – “Special Delivery to 7 Blimble Street, Wavellside West”, read the instructions on the side of the box. Making his way toward the front door of the house, the gate snapped shut behind him. Mister Didsley glanced nervously about the garden with a feeling that eyes were upon him. By no means was he the first postman to cringe as he set foot past the gate of 7 Blimble Street. More often, postmen feared dogs. Not in this case. This was something far worse than any snarling, slobbering dog.
Thoughts of Mister Perkins, Wavellside West’s last postman, flashed inside Mister Didsley’s head. Dawdling a little too long in front of house number seven one day, the early demise of Mister Archibald Perkins was sealed. From out of the blue that day came a blustering wind that seized his large yellow postal sack, whipping it high into the air. Letters scattered from pillar to post – so to speak- and Mister Perkins was tossed down the street like spinning tumbleweed.
In the confusion, he never saw the strange thing that followed on that day. Every letter addressed to 7 Blimble Street, floated slowly down (from among hundreds that still circled about in the sky) to slip quietly into the blue wooden post-box, landing with a soft sort of a “pfhud” sound. The tumbling ordeal was too much for Mister Perkins and he quit his job the very same day.