The following morning, with, thankfully, a little heat exuding from the radiators, once more my Master and I share breakfast.
A knock. “Mrs Haswell?”
“Come in, Ross.”
He enters, hand outstretched, offering me a thick wedge of envelopes. “Good morning, Mr Haswell. Mrs Haswell, the post.” My Master looks up from his newspaper, brow c****d.
I riffle through a mix of white and brown envelopes, coupons, catalogues and other junk mail. “That’s everything, is it?”
“It’s everything I took from the mailbox.”
“And this is about typical?”
“I’d say so, yes.” Ross hovers. “Is there anything else?”
“No, that’s fine. You go do…” I wave a vague hand… “… whatever it is you should be doing.”
As the door closes behind him, I split the collection into junk, a stack of my own mail, and another for my
