Januariad

Dominic delivers the post. He arrives these days, not by bicycle or even postvan, but in an unmarked Ford Mondeo that he parks as the end of the terrace. He wears the postman’s jacket, an all-weather indestructible thing with a logo on the breast, and a navy blue woollen hat pulled over his ears. It is unclear whether the hat is a postman’s hat. It is unlogoed. His face is ruddy with the cold, his hands are uncovered. His shape is big and friendly in the quiet cul-de-sac.

He keeps the letter sacks in the boot of the car, and leans in to select the bundle for the road before walking the houses. If he has a parcel to deliver, he often rings the bell as he passes, leaving the resident to answer an empty doorway and, after a moment’s confusion, spot Dominic pulling a package from his vehicle down the road, waving with one hand. He offers parcels to neighbours in the event of the addressee’s absence. He trusts and is trusted. His job is a favour to people, his appearance a happy punctuation in the flat hours of the midmorning. It is easy to be liked.