OK, how big is your letterbox?

Assuming that this is a reasonable question to ask, I’ll assume that you’ll give me a serious answer.

Allow me to explain.

I’m talking about junk mail and straight away we hit a snag. What is ’junk mail’?

Now, you know me, I always try to be fair (ahem). So why do I think that I should be the one to decide what is or is not junk mail?

From time to time we all find one of those flyers in the letterbox.

They are usually intended to try and tempt you to enjoy a fast food treat for tea.

Then there’s the ’Jack-of-all-trades’ flyer.

We’ve all seen examples of what he can offer his fellow citizens.

He could fix your loose slates, dig your garden, cut the grass, pressure wash the drive, and clean the windows.

And then in the afternoon he can cut the budgie’s toe nails and clean his cage.

But my favourite flyer is from the dealer who is absolutely certain that he can offer you a better price for any of the old worn-out gold Rolex watches that you just might have forgotten leaving in the back of that drawer.

Think about it, we all must have an old gold watch lying around.

But don’t worry! If you can’t find a gold watch, there could be an old broken earring.

That’ll do. They buy anything.

But, to be accurate, while these casual flyers can be a nuisance, they are not mail, junk or otherwise.

The person we always knew as the postman would deliver the post.

From the depths of my ancient memory, I can just about remember this man, dressed in a smart uniform, complete with a flat peaked cap and a heavy canvas bag who would walk around Pulrose every day and push letters through your letterbox.

Now in those days, to get a letter was a rare happening. There were two types.

White envelopes or brown envelopes.

Official or friendly and, if you were fortunate enough to get any cards on your birthday, they would be formally addressed to Master Michael Cowin.

But for most folk, letterboxes were where you would find the door key, tied to a piece of string.

Now as the saying goes, ’nostalgia’s a thing of the past’ and, on the subject of post people, mention must be made of a well-known post lady who delivered the mail in the St John’s and Greeba areas.

Miss May Shimmin was a stalwart in her job and was based in St John’s.

She travelled on an official red Post Office bike, the model with a front carrier for her post bag.

May was a respected member of the community and, as a point of interest, her brother Haydn, another well known St John’s man, recently passed away. Good folk, remembered by us all.

The Post Office has always been a part of us all.

If you were a postman, you had a job for life.

I knew lads who became telegram boys when they left school and young women who became telephone operators in the days when the phones were a part of the Post Office.

Well this week, I was going have a go at junk mail, but sometimes things don’t always do as they’re told and I start to ramble.

There is no doubt that most of what we call junk does come by post.

But you can’t blame the messenger for the message.

So to finish off, the other day I was flipping through a mail-order mini-catalogue when this gem of a special offer stopped me in my tracks.

It was a wrist watch and, I quote, ’Accurate to one second in 138,000,000 years, speaks the time, day and date at the touch of a button.

Features include alarm and hourly chime.

Battery included. Half price, £29.99’.

I want one.