My brother is now a postie. He does a mail delivery round on a motorbike, or maybe a motor scooter. Actually the job sounds pretty good - I am often surprised at how much these non-professional, “working class” jobs pay. Better than I get paid, I can tell you that.
Anyway, he has one house on his round where the owner sends out her dog to collect the post from him in its teeth. At another address, the man one day asked Thomas to open the letter for him and read it to him. Thomas started to do this, but when he saw the letter he held back, and asked the man if he was really sure he wanted a stranger to read it. Yes said the guy, I need you to read it to me: I can’t read. So Thomas read him his parole conditions.
Which was making me wonder how you’d get by, how you’d get out of the hole you were in, if you couldn’t read a letter, fill in a form or follow the demands of an official notice. You’d be stuffed.
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