Running Postmen, Creeping Dog Owners, and Your Surprise Free Gift

Why have postmen started to run? It's a phenomenon I've noticed in the last few months but I've not been able to catch up with one long enough to find out why. Our previous postman, Paul, was an old-school charmer who would walk fairly briskly but always take a moment to crack a joke and generally make your day feel a little brighter. He'd worked the round for about a decade before he disappeared last November and was replaced by a succession of nameless grey-haired postmen who literally jog walk the entire route. I tried to speak to one this morning and all he'd say is 'good mo' before he ran off. Can you believe that? I didn't even get the full 'good morning'. I assume this 'good mo'ing must be a new Royal Mail initiative. Perhaps the Royal Mail pay them more if they speed up, sack them if they slow down. Whatever the reason, it's another of those small things that make the world colder, less inviting, and increases our alienation. In a few years, the Royal Mail will probably realise how they've damaged customer relations and they might encourage their postmen to start being friendly again. For now, I feel like I should meet the postmen at the gate because they treat walking up the path as such a huge inconvenience.

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Speaking of the path, I need to build a man trap or some workable method of catching the swine who keeps allowing their dog to shit outside my front gate. Three times in the last month I've had to stride over the pile of excreted dog situated on the pavement right in front of the house. It's a sign that we're past summer. The nights are slowly drawing in and, once darkness falls, dog walkers head down our street to play their disgusting little game. As soon as I've finished writing this, I'll have the pleasure of going out to shovel it up. If I knew who had done it, I'd go dump it in front of their house and see how they like it. My scientific part of my mind won't let it rest with not knowing. There has to be a way of working it out. The evidence should help me identify the breed of dog. I was wondering if stool width could provide an indication of the size of the dog and therefore the breed. I've searched on the internet for a chart of rectum widths of different breeds of dog. There isn't one but there damn well should be. So if you have a dog, I'd be grateful if you could grab a tape measure and leave the dimensions of its rectum in the comments. This is the first study of its kind and it will further humanity's progress by helping men and women across the globe push the right stools through the right letterboxes.

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Finally, behind my grumpiness, I'm hiding this bit of good news. This morning I had a remarkable stroke of good luck and I thought I'd share it with all of you who regularly read this blog. I've decided to buy each and every one of you a brand new Samsung Note 10.1 (2014 edition) tablet! I know what you're thinking but if you want to thank somebody, you really must thank Sheikh Hamad bin Khalifa Al Thani, the Emir of Qatar. According to the email I've just received from the Qatar Foundation, I've been awarded one million pounds. Obviously, the taxman will probably take a big bite out of that but I'm sure it will leave me pretty well off and I'd like to thank you all for your loyalty by buying you cutting edge technology. So, anybody who had read the blog more than four times in the last week (ten times over the past month) will get a free tablet, providing, of course that the Qatar Foundation cough up the cash. I'm confident they will because they have an authentic Yahoo Hong Kong return email address, though the email came from an account at Poland's University of Social Sciences and Humanities, which is where I assume the Sheikh is currently studying. Use the comments to state your preference: WiFi or 4G, 16/32 or 64 gigabytes, and whether you want it in black or white. Since I'm also collecting dog data in the same comments, please label your comment either RECTUM or TABLET. I'd hate to get confused and send you a sample off the end of my shovel or push a brand new Note though the letterbox of some shit-shirking creep.