The democracy festival, July 23, already has a winner: the men, women and supporters of Atlético de Madrid from the Postal Service, who have reinvented themselves and guarantee citizens the vote, instead of sending letters in which Emiliano Latorre Deulofeu would come up and tell his girlfriend Paquita that he thought of her every night, instead of sleeping seven hours and resting.
(Instant messaging has complicated epistolary love affairs, as it leads to misunderstandings.
–And during the day, what?)
I am very glad that the Post Office staff is giving the silence for democracy and have become accomplices without criminal responsibility of the voter, at the cost of extending service hours and opening on Sundays.
The figures of the Correos effort are overwhelming and deserve recognition, opportune because there are heartless who maliciously do not stick a stamp. The effort will improve the image of the postal service, a public service where it exists, especially among those who, like me, rarely receive letters from Luxembourg. At the most, from grapes to pears, some notification that in my absence I have to collect a document from the Treasury, a fact that impresses, or a burofax, like a footballer.
The Post Offices that I frequent are motley and functional, with their machine that distributes shifts and Bic pens. Unlike the Torrelodones Casino, gamblers are welcome and at the windows they display numbers for a raffle whose prize is a few gold bars or a lifetime salary, more or less what Sumar promises if it sweeps.
Of all the groups that asked for a bonus, the only ones that resist are the postmen. In a pandemic or in years of GDP growth, they kick the streets and always deliver letters and packages at a reasonable price, when I – I confess – am one of those who would open some, not with the intention of manger but to mediate between lovers, bring closer business positions or sing the forty to those who do not answer.
With piggyback or married cart, the postman never fails. Long live the postal service!
