Inv friend the postman takes life as a lark and as a secret sorrow which is a wife and six children if you can call that a secret.
when I first see the postman something passed between us which I find ard to explain, all i know is my stummick turned to water as it still does if he gives me a straight look and my knees went like jelly.
4 my friend the postman is tall for a postman, knows ow to wear a uniform and as blue eyes with a bit of sauce in them, a touch of grey at the temples, a boyish tuft of air sticking up at the back of is ead which ladies always want to smooth down, an wears is cap at a angle like the late admiral beatty.
all the same i think the most fascinating thing about the postman is that you never know what he is gain' to do next. one minit he is larkin with you putting up the curtains in the parlour or pulling down your back air and the next he as garn serious and talks about the inner meaning of life. the postman and me ave the same tastes as we both like parties and a drop of ourishin stout and i dare it ant been for is wife an children wedding bells would ave rung for us.
as it is our friendship as never done nobody no arm as what the eye dont see the cart dont grieve over and i for one would never break un a ome even if the wife is a slut who dont deserve to ave one. far be it from me to say anything against another lady especially when writing for the papers, all i say is if gentlemen want the friendship of other ladies instead of gain ome to their lawful wedded wives its because their ames are run by lazy whining slummocks who dont know nothing about cooking or ow, to make a gentleman comfortable. and naming no names there are mothers of six who ave let their figures go and never so much as trouble to put a drop of scent behind their ears after a days washin.
no gentleman wants to go ome to a kitchen {ull of steam and a wife smelling of soap and nobody can blame a gentleman if he meets a lady friend what as made the best of herself.
with all these beauty ints in the papers there aint no excuse for any lady to look like a sack of bertaters though i admit it would take more than a int to do much for a certain party i could mention.
—Gubbins in the "Sunday Express."
Text read from the printed page and cleaned; old type leaves the occasional error.