Glue

He didn’t use the wet sponge because he liked to lick instead. He liked the taste of glue. His stomach quacked on the glue as though it was food and the food tasted good. The bones in the glue tasted good. It was the best way to stick stamps when he was starving because saliva was always forming and he never dried up.

But the letter writer ran out of stamps. It was the last of a hundred and fifty stamps, and he needed one more. The post office queue was several doglegs long, but he picked up the remaining envelope and joined the queue. It moved forward and he moved forward too, as though he was glued to the person in front. He saw an advert on a TV screen. “Buy stamps here”, it said. “And win a holiday in Albania”. His empty stomach forced a howl of protest.

The letter writer needed a holiday. Working the Yellow Pages was hard and most of the companies went bust before it was even printed.

“Correspondence schools, corporate entertainers, cockney impersonators, cocktail stick distributors, corrosion specialists, cosmetic engineers, cottage cheese manufacturers.” He wrote to every one of them. “Not known at this address,” they always said. It was hopeless.

“Buy stamps here, and win a car made in Korea.”
A car would have been good. The queue turned and he faced the next dogleg looking forward to winning a car.

“Buy stamps here, win a dog grooming kit.”

He didn’t even have a dog. The adverts were relentless. Another howl made its way and he looked down at the carpet, turning again. “Win a beach towel, win a car port, win a gas-powered turbine.” A digital voice said, “Window number seven please”. His stomach let go propelling him towards window number seven and his book of first class stamps.

The man pushed a tiny book under the glass. The letter writer opened it, but there was something wrong. The stamps were different. They were like a sheet of transfers for model aircraft.

They weren’t lickable.

“What are these?”

They were new. They were self-adhesive. The letter writer prodded the book under the screen. They were useless. He didn’t want self-adhesive. The man pushed the book back.

“You peel them off and stick them on, sir.”

“I don’t care if they stick themselves on. I know how they work, and I don’t want self-adhesive. I want the ones I lick myself.”

Apparently, self-adhesive stamps were better for him.

“What’s better for me is you getting me a book of lickable stamps.”

But that was all they had by way of stamps. They had inflatable rings, barbecue tongues, gas lighters, bicycle pumps, pool shoes, dog boots and a welding kit, but they didn’t have a book of lickable stamps.

“You can do better than that. Now get me lickable stamps.”

The man stared. Then he blinked, pushed the chair back and walked to a tall, steel cabinet at the back of the post office. He moved a rotary clothes drier, and opened the sliding drawer. People complained in the queue. The trouble with people was they had no patience when someone demanded ordinary lickable stamps. They had no respect for the glue.

“Win a canopy for your conservatory, win a multiple remote control all-in-one, win a Euro cash converter.” All he wanted was one, solitary, lickable stamp. It wasn’t too much to ask for. Inflatable dinghies, white water canoes, windsurfers, snowboards. What use were they?

The man returned with the last book of lickable stamps. The letter writer inhaled. Ordinary tear off stamps, irresistible, perforated, marvels of compact design, exquisite miniatures, delectable, first-class, no money back, no nonsense, lickable tickets out of there.