*
E: I call to order this meeting of the Postal Office of the South. Welcome. We'll begin tonight's proceedings by opening the floor to any new business before moving on to the more pressing issues of the day. M****, I see that you would like to begin.
M: Yes. Well I was just wondering if you knew when we'll be changing our name? We don't half get some strange letters sent to us.
E: Strange letters?
M: Yes sir. Some people sending us letters with photographs of tombs and stuff like that.
E: We'll table that discussion for another day.
M: OK.
E: Anyone else?
P: I'd like to speak.
E: Do, then.
P: Thanks. I've written a poem about the post. Would the council like to hear it?
P, R, I, O, R, X: Yes!
P: Oh, hello X. I didn't know you were on the council. Anyway. Here's my poem:
Post is good,
Postmen better,
Money buys food,
I'm a real go-getter!
P: Do you like it?
P, R, X: Yes!
O, R, I: No! That's an awful poem.
E: Enough of this nonsense! Balderdash and fiddlesticks: I can't find my paper. Oh, thank you. The floor is now closed to new business.
V: Is there coffee in that chalice?
E: No. This five inch chalice with a few of the precious gems missing isn't for drinking out of. It arrived in a package addressed to "E, of the P.o.S.". Obviously it's a gift for me.
V: It's very nice. Can I hold it?
E: No. The rest of the precious gems might fall out if they come into contact with your leathery flesh. I intend to sell this chalice.
R: Is that real gold?
E: Of course it's real gold. This chalice is a priceless family heirloom that has been passed down from father to son for generations in my family.
V: But didn't you just tell us that it was gifted to you by a stranger?
E: Fiddlesticks. The transcript will show the truth. Are you keeping up with us, G?
G: Yes.
E: Good. Let's get to serious business.
P: Do let's.
E: There's only one item on the agenda. There has been a recent surge in grave robbing.
P: I'm sorry, E, but is this really the job of the Postal Service? To deal with grave robberies?
E: Balderdash! Let me finish, P. The P.o.S. have sent us some consoling letters to deliver to the families of the corpses involved.
I: I'm sorry... Who are the P.o.S.? You can't be talking about us, surely?
E: Damn! - Thank you, I. But please let me finish before interjecting. P.o.S. is the Police of the South: not the Police service, but a group of annoying women who pester innocent Post-people into delivering consoling letters. Anyway, there are twelve letters. That reminds me, I haven't taken a register yet. I'll count your heads. All here... OK. The letters are beneath your chairs. Please deliver them soon.
O: There are no addresses on these letters.
E: Please bore someone else with asinine questions, O. This meeting is over.
