The Postcard

I opened the door and almost fainted. A postman!

“I thought they’d got rid of you folk.” I said.

“Actually, I get privatised next week, love. Got a postcard for you. Cash on delivery. That’ll be two pounds please.”

“Do you take plastic?” I asked, digging in my pocket for some change.

“Sorry, cash only. The bean counters don’t let us handle plastic. I’m surprised they even trust us with letters.” I handed over the money and took the card. It showed a picture of Downing Street. It read

Dear Nick,

There’s no money left!
Banks have failed!
Job outsourced!
Help!

Wish you were here,
George.

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The Postcard