SUNDAY MAIL By Vêra Chase

From the very beginning that letter promised nothing good; delivered during the time of my Sunday siesta by a Sunday postman in his black-and-yellow uniform, the unmistakable outfit of the dangerous. How could it since I do not answer the door at such times or places? The key to the successful delivery must have been the powerful minutes-long pressure applied to the bell, which took me for one terrifyingly realistic moment back to the Civil Defense training campsite.

Such a rough awakening, which unfortunately collided with the lowest point of the unfavourable curve of my sleep sinusoid, prompted a flood of cold sweat covering my body, with an effect doubly unwelcome: exposed to naked air, out of the protective capsule of a blanket, it chilled my whole body; and moreover made dressing almost impossible. Apart from that an immanent suspicion of cardiac arrhythmia kept returning to me with every other intake of breath.

Automatically, I grabbed the pen as soon as it entered my field of vision, ignoring the fact that the Sunday postman was still using it, and in the next moment I signed the delivery document in a blank field adjacent to an unfamiliar name. Then, clutching the parcel, I immediately retreated into the safety of my nest. Without delay I turned off the electric power in order quite safely to extinguish any further danger of any further alarming bells during the rest of my siesta.
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