Holes, Honk-honks and Houses of Cards.

Date: 10/8/2025

I’d somehow rekindled a friendship with my old pal, Kylie. Out of the blue, she invited me over to her childhood home — which, apparently, she now lived in again. Full circle, that. As it turned out, I’d recently refurbished her kitchen. Don’t ask me why. Some sort of olive branch, I suppose. The trouble was, it looked an absolute state. A real house-of-cards situation. One sneeze, and the whole thing would come down like a toddler’s attempt at Lego. Kylie, to her credit, didn’t seem remotely bothered. She just stood there, calm as anything, smiling like she’d just found a fiver in an old coat pocket. “Erm… don’t lean on it,” I warned, eyeing the kitchen island that wobbled like a three-legged dog trying to lick its nether regions. She didn’t. She just nodded, as if this was completely fine. Maybe she was cutting me some slack because, well… I’d been through a bit of a trauma recently. The kind that literally leaves a hole in you. Not metaphorically — literally. I had a gaping hole right through my abdomen. You could see the wallpaper behind me if I stood in the wrong spot. Kylie bent down to inspect it, peering right through as though she were looking through a telescope. “Damn, girl. You’ve been through things,” she said, eyes wide like she’d been through the holocaust herself. The funny thing was, I still tried to get on with life. Hole or no hole, I wasn’t going to let it stop me swimming. I loved swimming. Granted, it was hard to keep up with everyone else — I mean, I was basically hydrodynamic Swiss cheese — but still. The pain though. My god, the pain. Like someone jabbing a rusty fork into me from the inside. I remember clutching my side at the edge of the pool, sobbing quietly while being comforted by… Miqita Oliver. Don’t ask why. She was just there. She gave me a proper hug, too — the kind that makes you feel momentarily human again. Then suddenly — as dreams go — my innards were back in place and I was out delivering parcels. Just like that. There were so many parcels. Endless. I was with two other posties, trying to keep up, feeling like the world’s most confused intern. Rob, the driver, glanced over mid-round. “You okay?” he asked. I realised I’d been staring blankly at the windscreen, my brain idling in neutral. “Ah, yes. I’m fine,” I said, blinking back into existence. “I just tend to zone out for prolonged periods of time, is all.” He smile and nodded like it was the most normal thing in the world. Back at the depot, my colleague Matt, broke the news that two people I really liked were leaving Royal Mail. “Oh no!” I gasped. “Not Leeeeeeeasa!” “Yes,” Matt replied, mimicking my elongated vowel. “Leeeeeeeasa.” “Although, we call her ‘Honk-Honk,’ you know.” He stated, rather matter of factly. “…Why?” I asked, already regretting it. “Because she uses Just for Men,” he added, as though this was self-explanatory. Then he grabbed two strands of his own hair, yanked them out dramatically, and shouted, “Honk-Honk!” I was still recovering from that display when he added, “Nick’s leaving too.” My stomach dropped. “Not Nick!” I said. “Ooooooh,” Matt teased. “Is it because you fancy him?” Suddenly, I felt like I had been catapulted back to my high school days, my face glowing a brighter shade of beetroot. “No, no… he’s just a nice chap,” I muttered. And it was the truth. I didn’t fancy Nick… that much. Next scene: I was knocking on a door. Some nondescript new build — not the ‘viccy’ terrace like I prefer. Mally from work (short for Malarky, fittingly) opened it up with the excitement of a man who’d invented bread. “You aren’t going to believe it, Amanda!” he said in his strong Somerset accent. He ushered me inside, where he proudly unveiled… a postbox. Handmade. Out of paper-mâché. It stood there in the corner, sagging slightly under the weight of its own optimism. “Well?” he asked, eyes gleaming. “What do you think?” “It’s…” I hesitated. “Bloody marvellous,” I said, over-pronouncing the r like it had gotten stuck on my tongue and I had forgotten how to speak for a second. Apparently, it was for charity — to raise money for immigrants who’d come to the country and had nowhere to live. This surprised me. Mally was a proud Brit and had previously let his feeling well known on exactly what he thought of immigrants. But here he was, turning over a new leaf. I was so touched I shoved a twenty through the slot. His grin could’ve powered a small village. He then insisted on giving me a tour of his son’s new home (which I’d mistakenly thought was his house). While we wandered about, admiring beige carpets and identical doors, unbeknownst to us, the paper-mâché postbox had been stolen. When we eventually circled back, Mally froze. It was gone. Not a scrap of soggy newspaper left behind. His shoulders caved in, the poor man looked like someone had jabbed him with a pin and deflated him. “That was all the money I had in the world,” he said glumly. “Gone.” I reached out to comfort him, but he brushed off my hand as though I were a speck of lint. Just then, Karl walked in — my friend’s husband, back to sporting his magnificent curly grey locks after a disastrous buzz cut that screamed “too much forehead”. “Where’s the box?” he demanded, eyes scanning the room. “It’s been bloody stolen!” Mally cried. Karl’s jaw dropped. “I put a tenner in that box!” Mally sighed, placed a heavy hand on Karl’s shoulder, and said with quiet gravity, “It’s gone, son. It’s over.” And that, apparently, was that.