The Red Letter Box

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Taking a breather at the Nancy Kingsbury Memorial Park in Anzac Parade, I soaked up the serenity like a sponge in a bubble bath. This little slice of paradise, with its primped flower beds and whispering leaves, was the perfect spot to catch my breath and gather my thoughts. I'd already strolled past the fire station and the old Pill Factory, familiar as the back of my hand, and now I was gearing up to keep on my merry way.

Next door, the Police Station loitered quietly, like a bouncer at a party, making sure everyone played nice. Up ahead, the junction of Church Street waved me over, promising another bench with my name on it. This sunny perch offered a front-row seat to the town’s live-action drama: the bustling Post Office. As I plonked myself down, the Sun gave me a warm hug. From this prime location, I had a perfect view of the red letter box standing at attention outside the Post Office, like a lone sentinel ready to gobble up the town’s mail.

A parade of posh SUVs vied for the closest parking spots, their engines humming like contented cats, dashboards flashing with GPS maps, and video monitors showing all the goings-on behind them. Each arrival was a high-tech ballet of precision and flair. Once parked, a driver in their Sunday best would step out, march to the letter box with the solemnity of delivering a royal decree, and ceremoniously deposit a single letter.

The whole routine was more choreographed than a Broadway musical. The driver would return to their chariot, fire up the engine, and a symphony of technology would ensue: GPS systems lighting up, rear cameras zeroing in, reversing lights blinking and beeping, fuel pumps humming, and turn signals winking. Slowly, like a well-rehearsed dance, the SUV would glide back into the flow of traffic, continuing its journey down Church Street.