I love Postman Pat, don’t you? He’s got to be one of my all time favourite movie stars. We have our very own Postman Pat. His name is Norman.
If Postman Norman has something to be signed for, he drives right up to the house instead of leaving it in the mailbox at the end of our drive. That’s so much fun because even though he knows me and I know him, I still bark like a Rottweiler on steroids until Dad lets me out of the house to greet him. Some people get scared when a near 50 kilo German Shepherd comes flying towards them like a scalded cat with a smouldering tail. Some delivery drivers, especially if they don’t know me, sit in their van and sound their horn and wait for Dad to tell them it’s safe to get out. Postman Norman knows me and he knows that all I want is to say hello, despite the fact I rush at him like I was bursting through the doors of Debenham’s at the start of the Boxing Day sales to get to the electrical department to claim one of only two 50 inch flat screen TVs on offer at less than half the normal price.
Postman Norman opens the door of his van and sits and waits for the onslaught he knows is coming his way. Just as well he knows me cos I’m in the van and on his lap before he has chance to say “I’m not a celebrity, get me out of here”.
That is always followed by a face lick and a biscuit. I’ll leave it to your imagination as to who gets which and who does what to whom!