Burley Cross Postbox Theft. Nicola Barker

in my hands, mentally, while rubbing a tremulous, slightly calloused thumb up and down its well-worn spine) and it’s got this stunning (stunning, stunning, stunning) Arts and Crafts-style design on the front cover: a mix of these three, thick, bottle-green stripes (of irregular width) interspersed with these two very, very red-end burgundy stripes, intercut with four, thin, cream lines, then this absolutely perfect black and cream Coptic-style cross in the middle – the four quarters each with alternating A&C-style graphics going grapes/olives/grapes/olives.

      Classic, generous, open font, in cream (I think it might be Baskerville, or something very like… I love Baskerville. There’s something so… so reliable, so trustworthy about the spacing, somehow…).

      You’ve just got to see it! I borrowed it from Rhona (it’s hers). She’s the older of the two sisters. Always dresses in grey or black. Very tall with sloping shoulders. Radiates disapproval. Hair drawn back into an unforgiving bun. Should have been a nun. Screams nun. Never smiles. (Why are religious people always so unapologetically bloody miserable? You’d think being religious was a reason to be cheerful! What’s the point of it all, otherwise?)

      Well, it’s hers. I asked if I could borrow it last week (just spontaneously). I seriously thought she was going to refuse, but then she handed it over, made some muttered excuse about ‘digging over the raised leek bed’, and left the room (I don’t think she likes me. I don’t think she likes anybody). By rights I should have returned it by now (but thank God I didn’t! Thank God I hung on to it!).

      Of course it was at that point – perfect timing, you know me – I discovered the wet bottom thing…

      I was astonished! I was horrified! I was like – Oh, my God, my bottom’s all wet! WHAT THE FUCK IS GOING ON HERE?!?!

      Tilly – the younger sister (she’s just so, so gorgeous, Ivo – you’d go perfectly wild for her if she was ten years younger. I’m quite in love with her myself, as a matter of fact. She’s got this wild mass of black curls highlighted with tiny wisps of silver. She’s thin as a pole with dark, dark blue eyes. Skin stretched over her cheekbones like strips of pale brown cow-hide. Dresses like some kind of crazed, pre-Maoist peasant refugee, or a young boy from a lost tribe of ancient Mongolian camel herdsmen; completely unintentional, mind – totally unpremeditated – clothes just look that way when she throws them on her. It’s effortless! Doesn’t have the first clue about how gorgeous she is. Product, make-up etc. an absolute anathema! Barely glances in a mirror… well, she told me… hang on… am I still…?) Hello! – well, she just gazes at my wet bottom, perfectly calmly (she’s so unstintingly practical) and says, ‘That’ll be your bike seat. There’s probably a small hole in it. It was raining earlier. Don’t worry. It happens to me all the time. Just tie a plastic bag over it… the bike