Collecting the latest results of Amazon's dreaded one-click ordering at weekend, a wave of sadness enveloped me as I realised that the mail collection office was actually Oldham's room of lost loves.
The young man passed my parcel through the hatch, and as I reached in I spied rows of pigeon holes stuffed with envelopes, many of them patterned with hearts and coloured deep red.
"What are all those?" I asked,
"Oh, they're all the cards that nobody has come to collect 'cos they had the wrong postage on them." he replied.
"Isn't that sad" I ventured,
"Dunno, you wouldn't catch me coming to collect a card that needed paying for."
So all those embryonic loves, those heartfelt yearnings remain lying there in the dark, for the want of a few pennies. And what of the emotion that was poured into those envelopes? The hope that accompanied the lustful longings? Somewhere someone is crying into their pillow wondering why they have been spurned, ignorant that their fate lay in one simple mistake of misjudging the size (of the envelope - before you get any smutty ideas).
I considered whether I'd risk a gamble of a few pence and a possible wasted journey to see what mysteries the left mail office had for me. I decided I definitely would. Yes, the young man was rather hard-hearted, if you ask me.
Then I realised where I'd heard his accent before, yes, that was it. He was from Barnsley or near by, where they must have a very large Room of Lost Love.
